Nor his nerves endure ages of the strain
Of waiting, with the everlasting pain.
The crazed lover in whose heart desire delves,
And lust gnaws, is Tityos for ourselves.
Look; spy you not passions everywhere
Mounting red-billed from entrails to the air?
Not in Hell is the stone pushed up, that will
Foil Sisyphus by rolling down the hill.
’Tis our Office-badges we see each year
Candidates praying, buying leave to wear—