In the School of Coquettes Madam Rose is a scholar,-O, they fish with all nets In the School of Coquettes! When her brooch she forgets 'Tis to show her new collar; In the School of Coquettes Madam Rose is a scholar!

Not as ours the books of old - Things that steam can stamp and fold; Not as ours the books of yore - Rows of type, and nothing more.

Time goes, you say? Ah, no! alas, time stays, we go.

What ye have been ye still shall be, When we are dust the dust among, O yellow flowers!

Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour - let no night Seal thy sense in deathly slumber Till to delight Thou hast paid thy utmost blessing.

O, Love's but a dance,
Where Time plays the fiddle!
See the couples advance -
O, Love's but a dance!
A whisper, a glance,
"Shall we twirl down the middle?"
O, Love's but a dance,
Where Time plays the fiddle!

He is a Patron who looks down, / With careless eyes on men who drown; / But if they chance to reach the land, / Encumbers them with helping hand

The ladies of St. James's! They're painted to the eyes; Their white is stays for ever, Their red it never dies; But Phyllida, my Phillida! Her colour comes and goes; It trembles to a lily,-- It wavers to a rose.

In merest prudence men should teach . . . That science ranks as monstrous things Two pairs of upper limbs; so wings-- E'en Angel's wings!--are fictions.

Old books, old wine, old Nankin blue;-
All things, in short, to which belong
The charm, the grace that Time
makes strong,
All these I prize, but (entre nous)
Old friends are best!

All the seasons run their race In this quiet resting-place; Peach, and apricot, and fig Here will ripen, and grow big; Here is store and overplus - More had not Alcinous!

All passes, Art alone Enduring stays to us; The Bust out-lasts the throne,-- The coin, Tiberius.

He is a Patron who looks down, / With careless eyes on men who drown; / But if they chance to reach the land, / Encumbers them with helping hand

Old books, old wine, old Nankin blue;-
All things, in short, to which belong
The charm, the grace that Time
makes strong,
All these I prize, but (entre nous)
Old friends are best!

All the seasons run their race In this quiet resting-place; Peach, and apricot, and fig Here will ripen, and grow big; Here is store and overplus - More had not Alcinous!

Fame is a food that dead men eat, I have no stomach for such meat.

In merest prudence men should teach . . .
That science ranks as monstrous things
Two pairs of upper limbs; so wings--
E'en Angel's wings!--are fictions.

In the School of Coquettes Madam Rose is a scholar,-O, they fish with all nets In the School of Coquettes! When her brooch she forgets 'Tis to show her new collar; In the School of Coquettes Madam Rose is a scholar!