YIELD THEE TO PLEASURE, OLD CARE
Yield thee to pleasure, old Care;
Hope—let me rejoice in thy truth;
Leave me, pale sickness; forbear,
And steal not the rose of my youth.
Spring; with thy charms, prithee come,5
I long for thy bright sunny hours;
Clothe the steep woods round my home;
And bid me revive with thy flowers.
Borne on the fresh blowing breeze,
The respite of Heaven descends.10
Joy; thy white hand let me seize;
I live for my father and friends.