CXXIV.

We wither from our youth, we gasp away-- Sick--sick; unfound the boon--unslaked the thirst, Though to the last, in verge of our decay, Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first-- But all too late,--so are we doubly curst. Love, Fame, Ambition, Avarice--'tis the same, Each idle--and all ill--and none the worst-- For all are meteors with a different name,[oo] And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame.