Mix your sage ruminations with glimpses of folly,
'Tis delightful at times to be somewhat insane!
There follows a savage assault on one Lyce, an ancient beauty who had lost her youthful charms, but kept up her youthful airs:
Where now that beauty? where those movements? where
That colour? what of her, of her is left,
Who, breathing Love's own air,
Me of myself bereft!
Poor Lyce! spared to raven's length of days;
That youth may see, with laughter and disgust,
A firebrand, once ablaze,