And where is a friend in the world so sure
As this fine old yard of clay?
Puffing, &c.
The beardless boy with his meerschaum fine
Or famous Principee,
To fashion’s strange follies may still incline,
They never will do for me.
The Stoic, too, dead to our joys, may blame,
And barter his peace away,
But while life still throbs in this mortal frame