May health brace your nerves, as I find you’re for gadding,

And Care drop the end of his tether,

And stately dame Conscience give license for madding,

And toss up your heart like a feather.

My heart, my good lady, to mirth is no foe,5

And many the joys which it feels;

My heart—why it danced thirty summers ago,

But I never could dance with my heels.