XIX

5 0 00

XIX

Snakes, satyrs, loves with many a shout

Across the stage still madly sweep,

Whilst the tired serving-men without

Wrapped in their sheepskins soundly sleep.

Still the loud stamping doth not cease,

Still they blow noses, cough, and sneeze,

Still everywhere, without, within,

The lamps illuminating shine;

The steed benumbed still pawing stands

And of the irksome harness tires,

And still the coachmen round the fires

Abuse their masters, rub their hands:

But Eugene long hath left the press

To array himself in evening dress.