Ah, what avails all mourning? Thou art gone
From life and youth and gaudy loveliness,
From that deep rest that men call drunkennes
        Ah, Corydon! Ah, Corydon!
        Thou the first hope of all our race
Hast left the blessed paths of peace and lov
        Ah, wilt thou be content to rove
From shop to shop with her, thy mother‑in‑law, 
        Or tremble full to hear at night, 
        With horror deep and deep affrigh
The wordy torrent from thy spouse's jaw?