And standing leave their booths with all their ware:
So the world’s children, when their night is come,
With empty satchels turn them sadly home.
V.
Sage, that would’st maker of thine own God be,
When made, alas! what will he profit thee?
Most like art thou to children that astride
On reeds or wooden horses proudly ride;
And as they trail them on the ground, they cry,