Classic Poem

Your sixtieth summer has passed, you old frisker,
And your cheeks are snow-white with a forest of whisker,
But yet you go gadding all over the city,
And at each sedan-chair every morning are witty.
When a tribune appears, you are sure to attend him,
If a consul comes out, then your escort you lend him;
Ten times to the palace you climb the steep hill,
And your talk is of nothing but chamberlains still.
Young men may behave in this fashion no doubt;
But there's nothing looks worse than an old gadabout.