LXIX.

Thrice happy he who, after a survey Of the good company, can win a corner, A door that's _in_ or boudoir _out_ of the way, Where he may fix himself like small "Jack Horner," And let the Babel round run as it may, And look on as a mourner, or a scorner, Or an approver, or a mere spectator, Yawning a little as the night grows later.