Classic Poem

Where are the golden times, when kings, who sat
Illustrious with the names of Fool, and Fat,
Still sat, and dozed, and left the vulgar cares
Of public government to counts and may'rs?
Their happy hours in softness slipt away,
All night in boozing, and in bed all day:
Only in spring, when cruel storms have done,
And the new air is tender with the sun,
Four gentle oxen, moving in a string,
Paraded in his town the sluggard king
Oh times admired and mourned!—