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is that woman's lot who, year by year, Sees, one by one, her beauties disappear; As Time, grown weary of her heart-drawn sighs, Impatiently begins to "dim her eyes"!— Herself compelled, in life's uncertain gloamings, To wreathe her wrinkled brow with well saved "combings"— Reduced, with rouge, lipsalve, and pearly grey, To "make up" for lost time, as best she may!

Silvered is the raven hair, Spreading is the parting straight, Mottled the complexion fair. Halting is the youthful gait. Hollow is the laughter free. Spectacled the limpid eye, Little will be left of me, In the coming bye and bye!