自从我进入了平静的年龄，我越来越敏锐地看到命运的苦涩的讽刺，人类一切事物的虚荣。唉，就在今天，当我审视名望的大门时，有人说:“天哪!我还以为你死了呢。”可怜的我，曾梦想长生不老!但这就是许多男人的方式，他们的名字被认为是违背时间的;我们以为他们是尘土，后来我们发现他们死后还活着。像狗一样，我们的作家有自己的日子，简要地说，畅销书很少当选;然后，“拇指向下”，我们悄悄溜走，被人遗忘，被人忽视。啊，好吧，我有过抒情诗的放纵;我写了上千首诗; And some, alas! were very bad, And some, alack! were best unprinted. But if I've made my muse a bawd (Since I am earthy as a ditch is), I'll answer humbly to my God: Most men at times have toyed with bitches. Yes, I have played with Lady Rhyme, And had a long and lovely innings; And when the Umpire calls my time I'll blandly quit and take my winnings. I'll hie me to some Sleepydale, And feed the ducks and pat the poodles, And prime my paunch with cakes and ale, And blether with the village noodles. And then some day you'll idly scan The Times obituary column, And say: "Dear me, the poor old man!" And for a moment you'll look solemn. "So all this time he's been alive - In realms of rhyme a second-rater . . . But gad! to live to ninety-five: Let's toast his ghost - a sherry, waiter!"