AGED Bacchus, on Olympus,
Ruddy is the wine to-day, -
But Ma'am Fortune, prone to crimp us,
Has my sheep-skin ragged away.
Four short years my buxom ponies
I have ridden might and main;
For four years my bosom cronies,
Luckless wights! have done the same.
And to-night my many shingles,
Hung with medals round, not square,
Through the smoke are staring idly,
With a pessimistic air.
O'er a Venus that a Raphael
Would have shuddered much to see
Hangs a faded veil, - a token
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