Taedium Vitae

　　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 thistledown 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.