You take the bait? then come without delayAnd bring your ware: be sure, 'tis not my planTo let you drain my liquor and not pay,As might some wealthy man.Come, quit those covetous thoughts, those knitted brows,Think on the last black embers, while you may,And be for once unwise. When time allows,'Tis sweet the fool to play.The gods have heard, the gods have heard my prayer;Yes, Lyce! you are growing old, and stillYou struggle to look fair;You drink, and dance, and trillYour songs to youthful Love, in accents weakWith wine, and age, and passion. Youthful Love!He dwells in Chia's cheek,And hears her harp-strings move.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.