That Time sits with his scythe to mow
Where erst sat Cupid with his bow,
That half your locks are turned to gray
I’ll ne’er believe a word they say.
’Tis true, but let it not be known,
My eyes are somewhat dimmish grown.’
And again:
‘Oh! then, whatever Heaven intends,
Take pity on your pitying friends!
Nor let your ills affect your mind