Behold the groves that shine with silver frost, their beauty withered, and their verdure lost!
A mighty maze! But not without a plan.
All looks yellow to a jaundiced eye.
What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.
A youth of frolic, an old age of cards.