ramseyarnaoot:
Ere years have made thee old
ramseyarnaoot:
And though thy nerves be shrunk, and blood be cold
ramseyarnaoot:
Warm thee by Pindar's fire
ramseyarnaoot:
Or thine own Horac, or Anacreon's lyre
ramseyarnaoot:
And take th' Alcaic lute
ramseyarnaoot:
Leave things so prostitute
ramseyarnaoot:
The gamesters share your guilt, and their stuff.
ramseyarnaoot:
With their foul comic socks
ramseyarnaoot:
Wrought upon twenty blocks
ramseyarnaoot:
Which, if they're torn, and turned, and patched enough
ramseyarnaoot:
In sound of peace or wars