I.

“Who shall decide,” I asked some time ago, “When doctors disagree?” None seemed to know, But change one word, and let the question be, “Who shall decide, when critics disagree?” We all are critics, not alone the men Who fail to make a living by their pen. And though there’s nought,――at least so poets deem,―― “That’s half so sweet in life as love’s young dream,” There’s nought, I think, for which one so much cares As talking over other folks’ affairs. And so we meet with those who sometimes say, That men have too much work, too little play: Others assert that men their duties shirk, Have too much play, and do too little work. What is the truth? Some men find life full sore, Work fifteen hours of the twenty-four; They say that work does nothing else but vex, And vow the collar’s never off their necks. Others declare the ancient precept stuff, And say one day in seven’s not enough; So half another day is, so to speak, Transferred from work to pleasure every week, While now we have, our hard-worked lives to cheer, Four extra holidays in every year. Truth is, to neither party should we lean, But ’twixt them both essay to hit the mean; Some of hard work get far too large a share, And ere they’ve learned to live, they die of care. Some _do_ themselves as well as others too, And still declare they’ve not enough to do, Saunter through Life, and vow it is a gem, And say they’re killing Time, while Time kills them.