One time it was a woman‘s face， or worse—
The seeming needs of my fool-driven land；
Now nothing but comes readier to the hand
Than this accustomed toil. When I was young，
I had not given a penny for a song
Did not the poet sing it with such airs
That one believed he had a sword upstairs；
Yet would be now， could I but have my wish，
Colder and dumber and deafer than a fish.