But to my talk—to own it tho’ you’re loath
You’re all spoilt children of a larger growth,
Longing for each poor tinsel’d toy you see,
And only constant to variety——
Whilst each, the censor of his own defects,
The darling fault with gentlest hand corrects;
E’en from his very failings draws a merit,
And dooms each error but a proof of spirit.
Look round the world——
When we say world—we mean not now-a days