Conning the comedy, line by line—
No more gauds for the gods of Woe!
No more verses in praise of Wine!
Shirking the fight that a man should fight,
Dodging the joys that a man should know,
Scorning the breath of a plumed thought’s flight,
Down with the swine and the husks below—
’Tis thus we reap from the seed we sow!
Hearts grow withered and locks grow white,
Dodging the joys that a man should know,