Nor near the bar, nor in the pit was he,
“The next, with favours white, and strange designs.
Swift up the church-way path we saw him whirled;
Just take your eye and throw it o’er the lines
That show he’s lost for ever to the world.”
The Epigraph.
Here lives, retired, with no more to excite,
A youth to all the corps de ballet known;
Fair woman smiled upon him every night,
Till Matrimony marked him for her own.