Bored at eighteen, but hovering around
The sacred lamp of burlesque. Then the guardsman,
Thin-waisted, tall, and with well-waxed moustache,
Driver of drags and tandems, quick at polo,
Gaining a dreadful reputation,
Nightly at crowded balls. Then the swell middle-aged,
With fair white waistcoat of bow-window shape,
With shiny boots and well trimmed close-cut beard,
Full of himself, and tales of his own feats,
And how he play’d his part. The sixth age shows