Methinks my Blood is grown cold,
Grown cold, grown cold, grown cold, &c.
I'll warm it then thus and be jolly.
I find by the slighting Beau's,
That Nature is declining;
Yet will I not knit my Brows,
Nor end my Days in pining:
Let other Dames Fret and Scold,
As they pass to the Stygian Ferry;
You see, though I am grown Old,