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Nor canst thou boast the many-tinted robe
Thine is a veil of grey,
Thou nurse of saddening thoughts, prolong thy stay,
Night's fire-embroider'd vest,
For I am Sorrow's child, and thy cold showers,
Wake a responsive chord
For oh! to me futurity appears
Nor seems one tint or star
But slowly cross her path, imperfe& shapes
Force their uneasy way,
-the unwelcome moon unveils her head, (Those hours are gone in which I hail'd her beams)
Distinctness spreads around,
I loathe the cheerful sight, as still my fate,
And envy-struck, I shun
I'll to my couch, yet not alas to rest ;
And e'en from pity hide
WRITTEN IN THE 16th CENTURY.
For aye be hynce ye vayne delyghts
Yatte men forweare inne folie!
But halie melancholie.
Then welcome armes yatte folded lye,
The purses of the browe,
Unguided steps and slowe.
The moonlight walk in pathless grove
The well-hede kele and still.
Yatte screche theyre bodynges shrille.
The fadyng clink of dystaunt bell
The grone of partyng ghoste,
Forlettying erthlie loste.
PARODIED IN THE 19th CENTURY.
Hither frolics and delights!
I my years would number ;
Toil and trouble slumber?
Welcome arms asunder thrown,
The forehead sleek and free,
The tiptoe tread of glee.
The taper'd hall that music haunts,
And feast and dance abound;
But wit runs giggling round.
The clink of an unheeded clock,
The toast that glows the breast,
Let angels have the rest.