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I grant your minstrelsy and pointed shoes
Might, for a while, some courtly dames amuse;
Perhaps the pages will, with jealous eye,
Regard your stylish chariot roll by.
But know, O dandy, that a dandy's power
Fades like the waning of an evening hour.
Your lute-string breaks, the mud your horse enmires,
The dame grows bored, and to her bed retires,
Black night descends, and now, with sharpened blades,
The jealous pages lurk among the shades.
Boast all you want; nay, prove your boasts are true;
The grave, the patient grave, still waits for you.