Thy voice still cautioned, ’tis no time for woe,
Nor only warned, but marked out safety’s road;
Who crams his yearning heart with earthly show,
Straight to be voided, fondles with the goad;
Who nods to Passion, as he gulps the chaff
That whitens the base highway of the world,
Totters to age, on an unstable staff,
Shook by the winds, which his own hopes unfurl’d;
Who tamely would let Age assert his claims,
And stiffen self to a distincter mould,
Who would not rather curse all shapes, thoughts, names,
That frame men’s hearts to forms, as meagre-cold:
He ne’er shall triumph o’er the powers of woe;
Mad Passion bursts his bounds, and thunders, “No.”