And old folks say, there are no pains
Like itch of love, in aged veins.
Oh, love me then, and now begin it,
Let us not loose a precious minute,
For time and age will work that rack,
Which time or age shall ne’er call back.
The snake each year, fresh skin resumes,
And eagles, change their aged plumes.
The faded rose, each spring receives
A fresh red tincture on her leaves: