And does the soul alone for age survive?
Like embryos sleeping in their seeds, seem nought,
'Till friendly time does ripen it to thought?
Judgment, experience, that before was theirs:
But fancy wantons still in younger spheres;
Played with some loose and scattered beams of light,
And revelled in an anarchy of wit.
Both youth and age unequally did charm;
As much too cold was this, as that too warm.
But you have reconciled their differing praise,