WHAT is't, good prying friend, you say? A hair or two just turning grey! Quick, boy! for the next barber send: This sight my Cloe may offend; I'll pass for twenty-five no more, Though I have seen seven lustrums o'er. Go, tap the oldest cask of wine; Invite those merry blades to dine; Bid Arrigoni bring his lute; And brush my best embroidered suit! This mighty hurry, friend, forgive; 'Tis time to be in haste, to live! |