S O N G by Gilbert Cooper, Esq.
Dear Chloe what means this disdain,
Which blasts each endeavour to please?
Though forty, I’m free from all pain;
Save love, I am free from disease.
No graces my mansion have fled,
No muses have broken my lyre;
The loves frolic still round by bed,
And laughter is cheered at my fire.
To none have I ever been cold,
All beauties in vogue I’m among;
I’ve appetite e’en for the old,
And spirit enough for the young.
Believe me, sweet girl, I speak true,
Or else put my love to the Test;
Some others have doubted like you,
Like them do you bless to be blest.