He scatter'd not in ears, but grafted them,
To grow there and to bear,—'Let me not live,'—
[This] his good melancholy oft began,
On the catastrophe and heel of pastime,
When [it] was out,—'Let me not live,' quoth he,
'After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff
Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses
All but new things disdain; whose judgements are
Mere [fathers] of their garments; whose constancies
Expire before their fashions. This he wish'd: