And hardly heaven—because it never ends.
I love the mystery of a female missal,
Which, like a creed, ne’er says all it intends,
But, full of cunning as Ulysses’ whistle
When he allured poor Dolon. You had better
Take care what you reply to such a letter.
Then there were billiards; cards, too, but no dice—
Save in the clubs, no man of honour plays;
Boats when ’twas water, skating when ’twas ice,
And the hard frost destroy’d the scenting days: