Now at thirty years my hair is grey
I wonder what would be like at forty ?
I thought of a peruke the other day
My heart is not much greener and, in short I,
I squandered my whole summer while it was May,
And feel no more the spirit to retort I,
Have spent my life, both interest and principal,
And deem not, what I deemed, my soul invincible...
What is the end of Fame ?
It is about to fill a certain portion of uncertain paper
Some liken it to climb upon a hill,
Whose summit, like all hills, is lost and vapour ;
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,
And bards burn what they call their midnight taper,
To have, when the original is dust,
A name, a wretched picture and worse, bust.
