“Shall men agree?” the next man said, “Each mind is shut within some head ( Pace the minds of all the dead ) With two eyes, seldom of a size,
And spectacles before the eyes. Then, if men differ, what surprise? “See the wight who wrapped in sadness Grieves how soon this life is done,
And, disgusted with the madness Of the way the world is run, Scorns the hollowness of gladness And the idiocy of fun:
Why, the spots upon the sun Can be seen, when the ray passes Blue eye-glasses. “And what makes the moonlight shimmer
With the dancing of the sea And the little stars cold glimmer Twinkle with an inward glee While this working-world grows dimmer
If my Mary looks with me? Not the moon or stars or sea, But the fickle cause, alas, is Love's eye-glasses.
“Oh, how sad a world to cough in Is a world once warm and fair, And how many fallings off in Old men's world of falling hair,
Till they think within the coffin That there's no world anywhere. For I fancy dead men wear ( Take your look now, lads and lasses! )
No eye-glasses.” He stopped, and with a civil look Said to his neighbour, “You come next,” Who had been looking at a book
And seemed a trifle bored and vexed. He laid the book down, stretched his legs And yawned, and, emptying his glass, Made a grimace as if the dregs
Were bitter, and replied, “I pass.” When pressed, he shook his languid head Until at last he hemmed and said:
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