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And that’s a colt's—the rest are loose or fled.
There is your hair, and whitish ev’ry lock,
And in your reck’ning you mistake the clock:
It points no more to twelve, but six at night;
Mistakes are nat’ral to a failing sight.
Mouth can’t receive you; but you may to age
Have charms still left to catch some tott’ring
sage;
And, like the plum or damson, he’ll not scoff,
But think you wholesome when the bloom is off
FROM A GENTLEMAN.
O Love, thou destroyer of rest,
What passions appear in thy train!
If kind, what a balm to the breast!
If slighting, how bitter’s the pain!
The youth unregarded, that sighs
To Heav’n for pity in pray’r,
Sighs on till extinguish’d hope dies,
And death is the cure of despair.
ANSWER.
O talk not to me of despair,
Of the passion that robs you of rest
Of all that you feel I’m aware,
By the feelings that lurks in my breast.
