No more to bits of china (though I love it),
To coloured prints no more my fancy roams,
Or all the works of art I used to covet
In other people's homes.

Old first editions, Sheffield plate and brasses,
Weapons of Cromwell's time and coats of mail,
Gate-tables, Queen Anne chairs and aught that passes
For craft of Chippendale—

Such things no more I spend my hard-earned cash on
(Fain though the spirit be, the purse is weak);
Yet strong within me burns the ruling passion
For anything antique.

To haunt the sales for "finds" no more my job is;
I've found at length, to satisfy my bent,
A wider sphere for this my last of hobbies,
Which costs me not a cent;

Where I can see my friends possess the treasure
Their souls desire, nor envy them for that;
My game's to scan my fellow-man at leisure
Divested of his hat;

Among my own coevals, whom at last Time
Is taking by the locks at forty-nine,
Searching (a quaint but inexpensive pastime)
For balder heads than mine.