Am I despised because you say,
And I dare swear, that I am grey?
Know, lady, you have but your day,
And time will come when you shall wear
Such 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 seek
But find no rosebud in your cheek,
Nor any bed to give the show
Where such a rare Carnation grew,
Ah! then too late, close in your chamber keeping,
It will be told
That you are old,
By those true tears y'are weeping.