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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.
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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,
