Yet there's a mighty diff'rence too,
Between the Fate of me and you;
Tho' you with tott'ring Age shall bow,
And Wrinkles scar your lovely Brow;
Your busy Tongue may still proclaim
The Faults of ev'ry sinful Dame:
You still may prattle nor give o'er,
When wretched I must sin no more.
The sprightly Nine must leave me then,
This trembling Hand resign its Pen;
No Matron ever sweetly sung,
only courts the young;
Then who wou'd not ( pray)
Enjoy his Favours while they may?
Nor Cramps nor Head-achs shall prevail;
I'll still write on, and you shall rail.