Though an angel should write, still 'tis devils must print.

Disguise our bondage as we will, 'Tis woman, woman, rules us still.

All that's bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest.

What though youth gave love and roses, Age still leaves us friends and wine.

What though my wingèd hours of bliss have been, / Like angel-visits, few and far between?

'Tis now the summer of your youth: time has not cropped the roses from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed them.