Rude boy, he flies like lightning o'er the heathPast wither'd trees like you; you're wrinkled now;The white has left your teethAnd settled on your brow.Your Coan silks, your jewels bright as stars,Ah no! they bring not back the days of old,In public calendarsBy flying Time enroll'd.Where now that beauty? where those movements? whereThat colour? what of her, of her is left,Who, breathing Love's own air,Me of myself bereft,