‘Phil. Bann’d be those hours, when ‘mongst the learned throng,
By Granta’s muddy bank we whilom sung.
Stud. Bann’d be that hill which learned wits adore,
Where erst we spent our stock and little store.
Phil. Bann’d be those musty mews, where we have spent
Our youthful days in paled languishment.
Stud. Bann’d be those cozening arts that wrought our woe,
Making us wandering pilgrims to and fro....
Phil. Curst be our thoughts whene’er they dream of hope;
Bann’d be those haps that henceforth flatter us,