There was a problem when proofreading this page.
( 5 )
True, at length my vigour's flown,
I have years to bring decay,
Few the locks that now I own,
and the few I have, are grey:
Yet Old Jerome thou may'ſt boaſt,
while thy ſpirits do not tire,
Still beneath thy aged froſt,
glows a ſpark of youthful fire.
An image should appear at this position in the text. To use the entire page scan as a placeholder, edit this page and replace "{{missing image}}" with "{{raw image|British grenadiers, or, The crown's safeguard.pdf/5}}". Otherwise, if you are able to provide the image then please do so. For guidance, see Wikisource:Image guidelines and Help:Adding images. |
THE RIVAL.
To its own Proper Tune.
OF all the torment, all the care,
by which our lives are curſt,
Of all the ſorrows that we bear,
a rival is the worſt.
By partners in another kind,
afflictions eaſier grow;
In love alone we hate to find,
companions in our woe.
Sylvia, for a' the griefs you ſee,
ariſing in my breaſt,
I beg not that you'd pity me,
would you but flight the reſt.
Howe'er ſevere your rigours are,
alone with them I'd cope;
I can endure my own deſpair,
but not another's hope,