Old sweetheart mine, your charms decline And Roman youths now rarely woo you. Your casement seems fit place for dreams, For few knock there in homage to you. Your friendly door, that used before To freely swing, is now neglected, Save, Lydia, dear, that I am here— Your ancient lover, long rejected! Are you asleep—or deaf? I keep My lonesome vigil under protest! Also, despite my age, to-night My love is proved or I know no test! 'T is well you hate the youths who prate Of spotless maids and guileless pleasures, And laugh to scorn those who adorn Chill Hebrus' shrine with dry-leaf treasures! I warned you they would run away From you in search of something younger; But here am I, old charmer—try To satiate my great heart-hunger! |