The glittering gaud may fix the passing gaze,

But the pure gem gains Time’s enduring praise.

Merryfellow.

Merryfellow.

Pshaw! Time will reap his own; but in our power

The moment lies, and we must use the hour.

The Future, no doubt, is the Present’s heir,

But we who live must first enjoy our share.

Methinks the present of a goodly boy

Has something that the wisest might enjoy.

Whose ready lips with easy lightness brim,

The people’s humour need not trouble him;

He courts a crowd the surer to impart

The quickening word that stirs the kindred heart.

Quit ye like men, be honest bards and true,

Let Fancy with her many-sounding chorus,

Reason, Sense, Feeling, Passion, move before us,

But, mark me well—a spice of folly too!

Manager.

Manager.

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