Sure, Love these dotards dooms to jealous pain, And the world's laugh, when all their toil proves vain.

he cried, 'O dotard fool, indeed, So ho!

Low bending in a secret lane, Late blooms of second childhood in his hair, He tries old magic, like a dotard mage; Tries spell and spell, to weep and try again: Yet not a daisy hears, and everywhere The hedgerow rattles like an empty cage.