CXXIV. We wither from our youth, we gasp away-- Sick--sick; unfound the boon, unslaked the thirst, Though to the last, in verge of our decay, Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first-- But all too late,--so are we doubly curst. Love, fame, ambition, avarice--'tis the same-- Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst-- For all are meteors with a different name, And death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame.