Misfortune, I am young, my chin is bare,
And I have wondered much when men have told
How youth was free from sorrow and from care,
That thou shouldst dwell with me and leave the old.
Sure dost not like me!-Shrivelled hag of hate,
My phiz-and thanks to thee-is sadly long;
I am not either, beldame, over strong;
Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate,
For thou, sweet fury, art my utter hate.
Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate
I am yet young, and do not like thy face;
And lest thou shouldst resume the wild-goose chase
I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage
Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age.