_Ode Xi._

The women tell me every day, That all my bloom has past away. 'Behold,' the pretty wantons cry, 'Behold this mirror with a sigh; The locks upon thy brow are few, And like the rest, they're withering too!' Whether decline has thinn'd my hair, I'm sure I neither know nor care; But this I know, and this I feel,

As onward to the tomb I steal, That still as death approaches nearer, The joys of life are sweeter, dearer; And had I but an hour to live, That little hour to bliss I'd give!