Nay, Euthukles! for best, though mine it be,
Comes yet! Write on, write ever, wrong no word!
Add, first,—he gone, if jollity went too,
Some of the graver mood, which mixed and marred,
Departed likewise. Sight of narrow scope
Has this meek consolation: neither ills
We dread, nor joys we dare anticipate,
Perform to promise. Each soul sows a seed—
Euripides and Aristophanes;
Seed bears crop, scarce within our little lives;