What! you, for verse, refuse
The joys your age should feel!
Flattered by you, my Muse
Before the Loves would kneel.
The Loves are children too,
Of winning voice, I trow;
But, alas! only twelve years old are you;
And I — I'm forty now!

Of laurels wherefore speak?
Watered with tears they live:
Fame doth not songsters seek,
When laurels she would give.
Spring's favorite flower's our due —
This tempts us, I'll allow:
But, alas! only twelve years old are you;
And I — I'm forty now!

Young bird! unfold thy wing,
The grove to render gay;
And songs still sweeter sing,
To charm some future day
To prompt those strains anew,
How gladly would I vow:
But, alas! only twelve years old are you;
And I — I'm forty now!

Yes, you'll no more delight
In crowns of flowers for me ;
In far more flattering plight
You then shall Genius see
Then may you kindly view
Such incense as I pour;
For fifty years old shall I be, when you
Have scarcely lived a score!