Sickness Is A Sort Of Early Old

Who Dare To Love Their Country, And Be Poor.

Learn To Live Well, Or Fairly Make Your Will; You've Play'd, And Lov'd, And Ate, And Drank Your Fill: Walk Sober Off, Before A Sprightlier Age Comes Titt'ring On, And Shoves You From The Stage.

Not Grace, Or Zeal, Love Only Was My Call, And If I Lose Thy Love, I Lose My All.

Now Warm In Love, Now With'ring In My Bloom Lost In A Convent's Solitary Gloom!

Is That A Birthday? 'tis, Alas! Too Clear; 'tis But The Funeral Of The Former Year.