Well, I shall sit with aged men,
And my good glass will tell me how
A grisly beard becomes me then.
And should no foul dishonor lie
Upon my head, when I am gray,
Love yet shall watch my fading eye,
And smooth the path of my decay.
Then haste thee, Time,—’tis kindness all
That speeds thy wingèd feet so fast;
Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,