Silver Threads Among the Gold
Insistent lads no longer shake
Thy shutters, keeping thee awake,
And no one ever now knocks at
The once willing door into thy flat.
Less frequently the lover cries
“Sleep not, my Lydia! Come, arise!”
The time will come when, old, forlorn,
Thou'lt weep about thy lovers' scorn.
On moonless nights the flames will rage
About thy heart; and, bent with age,
Thou'lt fret that lads delight in myrtle
And ivy more than in thy kirtle.
Insistent lads no longer shake
Thy shutters, keeping thee awake,
And no one ever now knocks at
The once willing door into thy flat.
Less frequently the lover cries
“Sleep not, my Lydia! Come, arise!”
The time will come when, old, forlorn,
Thou'lt weep about thy lovers' scorn.
On moonless nights the flames will rage
About thy heart; and, bent with age,
Thou'lt fret that lads delight in myrtle
And ivy more than in thy kirtle.
Thy shutters, keeping thee awake,
And no one ever now knocks at
The once willing door into thy flat.
Less frequently the lover cries
“Sleep not, my Lydia! Come, arise!”
The time will come when, old, forlorn,
Thou'lt weep about thy lovers' scorn.
On moonless nights the flames will rage
About thy heart; and, bent with age,
Thou'lt fret that lads delight in myrtle
And ivy more than in thy kirtle.
Insistent lads no longer shake
Thy shutters, keeping thee awake,
And no one ever now knocks at
The once willing door into thy flat.
Less frequently the lover cries
“Sleep not, my Lydia! Come, arise!”
The time will come when, old, forlorn,
Thou'lt weep about thy lovers' scorn.
On moonless nights the flames will rage
About thy heart; and, bent with age,
Thou'lt fret that lads delight in myrtle
And ivy more than in thy kirtle.
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