'Tis verse that gives Immortal youth to mortal maids.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee.

When we play the fool, how wide The theatre expands! beside, How long the audience sits before us! How many prompters! what a chorus!

Ah what avails the sceptered race, Ah what the form divine!