The women tell me every day

That all my bloom has pas past away.

"Behold," the pretty wantons cry,

"Behold this mirror with a sigh;

The locks upon thy brow are few,

And like the rest, they're withering too!"

Whether decline has thinned my hair,

I'm sure I neither know nor care;

But this I know, and this I feel

As onward to the tomb I steal,

That still as death approaches nearer,

The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;

And had I but an hour to live,

That little hour to bliss I'd give.