"While other lads their books forsake,
Or sigh to meet the hours of play:
You, Lycidas, no leisure take,
But still through learned volumes stray:—
With years so few, ah why so grave;
Why every hour to books a slave?
Hence, Lycidas, I pray, retire:
Go with your mates, and take your play—
Not him I prize, or much admire,
Who, curious, hangs on all I say:
The lad that's wise before his time,
Will be a coxcomb in his prime.
Stay not too close in learning's shop;—
'Till time a riper mind prepares,
The ball, the marble, and the top
Are books, that should divide your cares—
The lads that life's gay morn enjoy,
I'm pleased to see them act the boy.
I hate the pert, I hate the bold,
Who, proud of years but half a score,
With none but men would converse hold,
And things beyond their reach explore:
Like the famed Cretan, soaring high,
To melt their waxen wings and die."