The old man babbles on! Ye gods, I swear
My soul is sick of these philosophers!
In truth I marvel that young blood should care
To hear such vapid stuff; yet no one stirs.

Who's for a breath of unpolluted air?
See yonder brown-eyed nursling of the Muse,—
I'll pluck his robe and ask him; if he choose,
We two can steal away and none be ware.

What joy to find a woodland rill and wade
Knee-deep through pebbly shallows; then to lie
With glistening limbs along the open glade
And let the soft-lipped sunbeams kiss them dry;
Or, wandering in the grove's remoter shade,
To sport and jest and talk—Philosophy?