Still, let me sing. Yet not as once I sung:
Love, fear, and death have chastened, sobered, saddened,
One who knew life’s full burden-time too young;
Whom never youth’s unhampered freedom gladdened,
But only envy and ambition stung,
And fickle passions—in love’s semblance maddened;
So that he needs must tumble now, poor clown,
On this Pindaric stage for half-a-crown:
Yet one who, ’spite a past that shocked St. Tony
And paid recording angels overtime,