“Your fortune? You are now so old, Good dame, that ’tis already told: Yet for your money, in a trice I will repay you in advice. Astonished at your childish vanity, Your friends all tax you with insanity, And grieve to see you use your art To catch some youthful lover’s heart. Believe me, dame, when all is done, Your age will still be fifty one; And men will rarely take an hint Of love, from two grey eyes that squint. Take then my counsels; lay aside Your paint and patches, lust and pride, And on the poor those sums bestow, Which now are spent on useless show. Think on your maker, not a suitor; Think on your past faults, not on future; And think time’s scythe will quickly mow The few red hairs, which deck your brow.”