Weave scentless wreaths unblest with flowers.
It beam’d on cheek of sable dye;
No matter, since ’t was woman’s eye!
Each phrase the tortured language broke;
Enough for me—’t was woman spoke!
Once raven locks my temples wore;
Time has pluck’d many, sorrow more:
Through forty springs (thank God they’re run)
These weary eyes have seen the sun;
And in that space full room is found