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 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
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 V. 
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 VIII. 
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But grant to Life (and just it is to grant
To lucky Life) some perquisites of joy;
A time there is, when, like a thrice-told tale,
Long-rifled Life of sweet can yield no more,

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But from our comment on the comedy,
Pleasing reflections on parts well-sustain'd,
Or purposed emendations where we fail'd,
Or hopes of plaudits from our candid Judge,
When, on their exit, souls are bid unrobe,
Toss Fortune back her tinsel, and her plume,
And drop this mask of flesh behind the scene.