Misfortune, I am young, my chin is bare,
And I have wonder’d 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!—Shrivel’d 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.