I'm A Little Wounded, But I Am

Old As I Am, For Ladies' Love Unfit, The Power Of Beauty I Remember Yet.

For Thee, Sweet Month; The Groves Green Liveries Wear. If Not The First, The Fairest Of The Year; For Thee The Graces Lead The Dancing Hours, And Nature's Ready Pencil Paints The Flowers. When Thy Short Reign Is Past, The Feverish Sun The Sultry Tropic Fears, And Moves More Slowly On.

So Softly Death Succeeded Life In Her, She Did But Dream Of Heaven, And She Was There.

Love And Time With Reverence Use, Treat Them Like A Parting Friend: Nor The Golden Gifts Refuse Which In Youth Sincere They Send: For Each Year Their Price Is More, And They Less Simple Than Before.

Trust Reposed In Noble Natures Obliges Them The More.