'Tis true, thou yet art fair, my Ligurine,
No down as yet environs cheek or chin:
But when those hairs which now do flow, shall fall,
And when thy rosy cheeks turn wan and pale:
When in thy glass another Ligurine thou
Shalt spy, and scarce thy bearded self shall know;
Then thou (despis'd) shalt sing this piteous song;
Why am I old? or why was ever young?