LXXII
WOULD but the dim Face of old Winter yield
One glimpse of green, like Youth to Age reveal’d,
Thro’ which once more the failing Limbs might spring
As springs the trampled Herbage of the Field.
LXXIII
AH! with the Green my fading life provide,
Some ancient golfing Crony by my side:
Content to play one Round, or, meeker still,
To mix a gentle Foursome satisfied.