Don Juan by Lord Byron

I / Of all the barbarous middle ages, that / Which is most barbarous is the middle age / Of man; it is -- I really scarce know what; / But when we hover between fool and sage, / And don't know justly what we would be at -- / A period something like a printed page, / Black letter upon foolscap, while our hair / Grows grizzled, and we are not what we were; --

II / Too old for youth, -- too young, at thirty-five, / To herd with boys, or hoard with good threescore, -- / I wonder people should be left alive; / But since they are, that epoch is a bore: / Love lingers still, although 'twere late to wive; / And as for other love, the illusion's o'er; / And money, that most pure imagination, / Gleams only through the dawn of its creation.