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Rh  Consult your mirror, mark with care, How scanty now your silver hair; Old wintry Time has shed his snows, And bald and bare your forehead shows." But faith! I know not where they're gone, Or if I've any left—or none; But this I know, that every day Shall see me sportive, blithe, and gay; For 'tis our wisdom so to do The nearer death appears in view.

punishment shall I decree, Vexatious, chattering bird, to thee? Say, shall I clip thy restless wing? Or, like the cruel Thracian king, Tear out that tongue whose noisy scream Has loused me from so sweet a dream?