BALLAD. ('Tis true the marks of many years)

'Tis true the marks of many years Upon my wrinkled front appears, Yet have I no such idle fears This will my fortune spoil:

Gold still some happiness bestows, E'en where no youthful ardour glows; For proof, dear girl, take these rouleaus, And give me a sweet smile.

'Tis true upon my haggard face, No marks of beauty can you trace, Nor wears my figure ought of grace, To ensure the lover's bliss:

Yet am I no such horrid fright, But that bank notes may set things right, Take then these bills all drawn at sight, And give me a sweet kiss.

'Tis true I know not to be kind, And that within my hardened mind No more a jewel can you find Than beauty in my face:

But one within this casket here, May make amends, its lustre's clear, Nor shall I think I've sold it dear, Paid by a sweet embrace.