Tell them, though it may be, perhaps, too late—
On Life’s worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated—
To set up vain pretence of being great,
’Tis not so to be good; and, be it stated,
The worthiest kings have ever loved least state:
And tell them—But you won’t, and I have prated
Just now enough; but, by and by, I’ll prattle
Like Roland’s horn in Roncesvalles’ battle.