"'T is true, it gets another bright and fresh,

Or fresher, brighter; but the year gone through,

This skin must go the way, too, of all flesh,

Or sometimes only wear a week or two;—

Love's the first net which spreads its deadly mesh;

Ambition, Avarice, Vengeance, Glory, glue

The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days,

Where still we flutter on for pence or praise."