But now, grown old, ſhe would repair
Her loſs of time and pleaſure,10
With willing eyes and wanton air
Inviting ev’ry gazer.
But love ’s a ſummer-flow’r, that dies
With the firſt weather’s changing;
The lover like the ſwallow flies,15
From ſun to ſun ſtill ranging.
Mira! let this example move
Your fooliſh heart to reaſon:
Youth is the proper time for love,
And age is virtue’s ſeaſon.20
ON THE SAME.
So well Corinna likes the joy,
She vows ſhe ’ll never more be coy;
She drinks eternal draughts of pleaſure;
Eternal draughts do not ſuffice;
“O! give me, give me more,” ſhe cries,5
“’T is all too little, little meaſure.”
Thus wiſely ſhe makes up for time
Miſpent while youth was in its prime:
So travellers who waſte the day,
Careful and cautious of their way,10
