Time was, when many a cheerful thought,

If not with Wit, with Fancy, fraught,

Had rush’d into my Mind;

Had my lov’d Fanny’s gentle look,

Implied a Wish in her white book,

Some trace of me to find.

But now, Alas! those days are done,

My Pipe is broke, my Muse is flown,

And Fancy fades away;

Time’s heavy hand with all his train,

Of sickly discontent and Pain,

Have seiz’d me for their Prey.

Can I then write, as ‘erst, with Ease?

And hope my partial Friend to please?

Who always lov’d my Lays:

Yes, to her kind indulgent Ear,

My Tuneless notes will still appear

Like those of former Days.