'Neath the cold malice that doth e'er belong
To small minds wielding blind authority.
So youth by age is ever vanquishèd
And beauty smirched and soiled when youth is dead.
THE ENVIOUS POETS
You say we are happy, being poets,
In our poor songs and tawdry tales.
I tell you it is not true.
There are those we envy above the gods,