L.

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast, Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so," Uttered by friends, those prophets of the _past_, Who, 'stead of saying what you _now_ should do, Own they foresaw that you would fall at last,[my] And solace your slight lapse 'gainst _bonos mores_, With a long memorandum of old stories.