To a Gentlewoman Objecting to Him His Gray Hairs
Am I despised, because you say;And I dare swear, that I am gray?Know, Lady, you have but your day!And time will come when you shall wearSuch frost and snow upon your hair;And when, though long, it comes to pass,You question with your looking-glass,And in that sincere crystal seekBut find no rose-bud in your cheek,Nor any bed to give the shewWhere such a rare carnation grew:-Ah! then too late, close in your chamber keeping,It will be toldThat you are old,--By those true tears you're weeping.
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