XXXIII
But turning morning into night,
Tired by the ball's incessant noise,
The votary of vain delight
Sleep in the shadowy couch enjoys,
Late in the afternoon to rise,
When the same life before him lies
Till morn—life uniform but gay,
To-morrow just like yesterday.
But was our friend Eugène content,
Free, in the blossom of his spring,
Amidst successes flattering
And pleasure's daily blandishment,