Nor, though they bloomed profusely, should we wear
Upon our Heads—so tight is Habit's hold—
Aught else beside our own unaided Hair.
The Epoch curbs our Fancy. What is more
To BE, in any case, is now a Bore.
Even in Humor there is nothing new;
There is no Joke that was not made before.
But Thou! with what a fresh and poignant sting
Thy Muse remarked that Time was on the Wing!
Ah, Golden Age, when Virgin was the Soil,