'Twill not do to pine for ever,—I am getting up in years.
Can I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press,
And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness?[108]
Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I knew,
When my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two!
When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant wide,
With the many larks of London flaring up on every side;
When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come;
Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb;[109]
Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh heavens!