QUINTILIAN TO LYCIDAS

“While other lads their books forsake,

Or sigh to meet the hours of play:

You, Lycidas, no leisure take,

But still through learned volumes stray:—

With years so few, ah why so grave;

Why every hour to books a slave?

Hence, Lycidas, I pray, retire:

Go with your mates, and take your play —

Not him I prize, or much admire,

Who, curious, hangs on all I say:

The lad that's wise before his time,

Will be a coxcomb in his prime.

Stay not too close in learning's shop;—

‘ Till time a riper mind prepares,

The ball, the marble, and the top

Are books, that should divide your cares —

The lads that life's gay morn enjoy,

I'm pleased to see them act the boy.

I hate the pert, I hate the bold,

Who, proud of years but half a score,

With none but men would converse hold,

And things beyond their reach explore:

Like the famed Cretan, soaring high,

To melt their waxen wings and die.”