On my brown locks your powder you may throw,
And bleach them to your fancy, white as snow.
But look not, Age, so wistful at my mouth,
As if you longed to pull out ev’ry tooth!
Let them, I do beseech you, keep their places!
Though, if you like, you’re free to paint their faces.
My limbs I yield you; and if you see meet
To clap your icy shackles on my feet,
I’ll not refuse; but if you drive out gout,
Will bless you for’t, and offer thanks devout.