That youthful maidens wont to fly.
XXI.
On his bold visage middle age
Had slightly press’d its signet sage,[51]
Yet had not quench’d the open truth
And fiery vehemence of youth;
Forward and frolic glee was there,
The will to do, the soul to dare,
The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire,
Of hasty love, or headlong ire.