The lines of Bill and me and John
Were cast in pleasant places;
And "Friends," I murmured, "what's the odds
If you are rather battered gods?
This is no time for Ichabods
And eheu—er—fugaces."
Ah, no; I did not mourn the years'
Fell work upon those poor old-dears,
Nor PITT nor Venus drew my tears
And set me slowly sobbing;