Time was, when many a cheerful thought,
If not with Wit, with Fancy, fraught,
Had rush’d into my Mind;
Had my lov’d Fanny’s gentle look,
Implied a Wish in her white book,
Some trace of me to find.
But now, Alas! those days are done,
My Pipe is broke, my Muse is flown,
And Fancy fades away;
Time’s heavy hand with all his train,
Of sickly discontent and Pain,
Have seiz’d me for their Prey.
Can I then write, as ‘erst, with Ease?
And hope my partial Friend to please?
Who always lov’d my Lays:
Yes, to her kind indulgent Ear,
My Tuneless notes will still appear
Like those of former Days.
|Archive||Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library|
Local title: On being desir'd to write something in Mrs Crewe's Album.
Attributed author: Mrs Greville.
Other variants: n/a