TO stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear
 This paltry age's gaudy livery,
 To let each base hand filch my treasury,
 To mesh my soul within a woman's hair,
 And be mere Fortune's lackeyed groom,--I swear
 I love it not! these things are less to me
 Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea,
 Less than the thistle-down of summer air
 Which hath no seed: better to stand aloof
 Far from these slanderous fools who mock my life
 Knowing me not, better the lowliest roof
 Fit for the meanest hind to sojourn in,
 Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife
 Where my white soul first kissed the mouth of sin.