Ah, good old times of belles and beaux,

Of powdered wigs and wondrous hose,

Of stately airs and careful grace,

Look you at our degenerate race.

No more the gallant spends his time

In writing of his love in rhyme;

No more he lives unconscious of

All earthly things save war and love.

We modern men have toils and cares

To streak our pates with whitened hairs,

And have to crowd our love and all

Into one short and weekly call.