PRITHEE tell me, Dimple-Chin,

At what age doth love begin?

Your blue eyes have scarcely seen

Summers three, my fairy queen,

But a miracle of sweets,

Soft approaches, sly retreats,

Show the little archer there,

Hidden in your pretty hair;

When didst learn a heart to win?

“Oh!” the rosy lips reply,

“I can’t tell you if I try.

’Tis so long I can’t remember:

Ask some younger lass than I!”

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face,

Do your heart and head keep pace?

When does hoary Love expire,

When do frosts put out the fire?

Can its embers burn below

All that chill December snow?

Care you still soft hands to press,

Bonny heads to smooth and bless?

When does Love give up the chase?

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face?

“Ah!” the wise old lips reply,

“Youth may pass, and strength may die;

But of Love I can’t foretoken:

Ask some older sage than I!”