Wide spreads the infectious laugh, and even a while
The losing litigant consents to smile;
* * * * *
All but the macer, grieved to see no more
The classic gravity that Corehouse wore.
But to return: if you have owed to me
One witless jest, one pointless repartee—
If I at good mens’ feasts too long have lolled,
And seldom stirred when bells to church have knolled—
If censuring tongues might of my errors tell,