47
You've no more of lawn and lace
Than may serve to veil your face
From the leaden lid's disgrace
Gay Ladies.
Now she shears your pride of hair,
Which shall deck some other fair,
Gay Ladies,
Uncounting whence the braid is so a high piled head she wear;
Yet the crone sighs, 'well-a-day,
But a paltry price they'll pay'!
For your gold's but gilded gray,
Gay Ladies.
Sylvester:
Your song has touch'd some chord my brain within,
And long forgotten thoughts float up once more
