What! your own spring you never heed,
But talk of tenderness indeed,
To me whose youth bowed down appears
Beneath the weight of forty years!
Once I but needed, for my part,
Some poor grisette to fire my heart:
Ah! wherefore can I not for you,
As for Rosette, feel love anew?

Superbly clad, in carriage gay,
You are paraded day by day:
Rosette, in dresses fresh and neat,
Would laughing trip along the street;
Whilst, just to frighten me, her glances
To ogling seemed to make advances
Ah! wherefore can I not for you,
As for Rosette, feel love anew?

In this boudoir, with satin decked,
Mirrors by scores your smiles reflect:
Rosette possessed one glass alone;
I thought it was the Graces' own
No curtains closed around her head;
The sunrise cheered her little bed:
Ah! wherefore can I not for you,
As for Rosette, feel love anew?

Your sparkling wit might well inspire
With its bright flashes many a lyre:
I blush not to confess it true,
Rosette her letters scarcely knew;
And when at loss her words to choose,
Love, as interpreter, would use
Ah! wherefore can I not for you,
As for Rosette, feel love anew?

With yours compared, her charms were few;
Her very heart less tender too:
Nor looked she with so soft an eye
On happy lover listening by
But still she charmed me; for, in sooth,
Her's was my much-regretted youth!
Ah! wherefore can I not for you,
As for Rosette, feel love anew?