To spring belongs the violet, and the blown 
Spice of the roses let the summer own. 
Grant me this favor, Muse--all else withhold-- 
That I may not write verse when I am old.

And yet I pray you, Muse, delay the time! 
Be not too ready to deny me rhyme; 
And when the hour strikes, as it must, dear Muse, 
I beg you very gently break the news.