So sad it is to deem my triumphs past,
And think these joyous plaudits are my last.
Warned by some symptoms of a certain age,
To-night a veteran quits the mirthful stage;
A certain age a certain post requires—
Not prematurely Robertson retires.
At eight-and-forty, when the locks are grey,
’Tis time to doff one’s comedy array,
And leave, while youth’s excesses we retrench,
Some space between the banquet and the Bench.