When swift your wingèd steps advance

To where the racer’s prize invites you,

Or, after hours of wheeling dance,

The nightly deep carouse invites you.

But to awake the well-known lyre

With graceful touch that tempers fire,

And to a self-appointed goal,

With tuneful rambling on to roll,

Such are your duties, aged sirs; nor we

Less honour pay for this, nor stint your fee;

Old age, not childish, makes the old; but they

Are genuine children of a mellower day.

Manager.

Manager.

Enough of words: ’tis time that we

Were come to deeds; while you are spinning

Fine airy phrases, fancy-free,

We might have made some good beginning.

What stuff you talk of being in the vein!

A lazy man is never in the vein.

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