Men and women,--more or less,-- Have minds o' the self-same metal, mould, and form!-- Doth not the infant love to sport and laugh, And tie a kettle to a puppy's tail?-- Doth not the dimpled girl her 'kerchief don (Mocking her elder) mantilla wise--then speed To mass and noontide visits; where are bandied Smooth gossip-words of sugared compliment? But when at budding womanhood arrived, She casts aside all childish games, nor thinks Of aught save some gay paranymph--who, caught In love's stout meshes, flutters round the door, And fondly beckons her away from home,-- The whilst, her lady mother fain would cage The foolish bird within its narrow cell!-- And then, the grandame idly wastes her breath, In venting saws 'bout maiden modesty-- And strict decorum,--from some musty volume: But the clipp'd wings will quickly sprout again; And whilst the doating father thinks his child A paragon of worth and bashfulness,-- _Her_ thoughts are hovering round the precious form Of her sweet furnace-breathing Don Diego!-- And he, all proof 'gainst dews and nightly blasts, In breathless expectation waits to see His panting Rosa at the postern door;-- While she sighs forth "My gentle cavalier!"-- And then they straightway fall to kissing hands, And antic-gestures--such as lovers use,-- Expressive of their wish quickly to tie The gordian knot of marriage;--Pretty creatures!-- But why not earlier to have thought of this?-- When he, the innocent youth, was wont to play At coscogilla; and the prattling girl, Amid her nursery companions, toiled In sempstress labours for her wooden dolls.-- Ah! wherefore, did I ask?--Because forsooth, Their ways are changed with their increasing years!-- For when for gallantry the time be come-- And when the stagnant blood begins to boil Within the veins, my master--then the lads Cast longing looks on damosels--for nature Defies restraint--and kin-birds flock together!-- And think not, Master, _Chance_ disposes thus; Or were it so, then chance directs us all-- Whene'er we have attain'd the important age! I, ------, am a living instance!-- Was I not once a lively laughing boy? And, in my stripling age, did I not love The pastimes suited to those madcap days?-- Oh! would to heaven those times were present still! But wherefore fret myself with hopes so vain?-- The silly thought doth find no shelter here,-- That any beauty, with dark roguish eyes, With sparkling blood, and rising warmth of youth, Would e'er affect this wrinkled face of mine:-- The very thought doth smack of foolishness!-- And, though the truth may be a bitter pill, Yet,-- It is most fitting that we know ourselves.