Shalt spy, and scarce thy bearded self shall know;
Then thou (despis'd) shalt sing this piteous song;
Why am I old? or why was ever young?
Book IV. Ode XI. To Phyllis.
Come, Phyllis, gentle Phyllis! prithee come,
I have a glass of rich old wine at home,
And in my garden curious flowers do grow,
That languish to adorn thy brow.
The ivy and the yellow crowfoot there