The gods have heard, the gods have heard my prayer;Yes, Lyce! you are growing old, and stillYou struggle to look fair;You drink, and dance, and trillYour songs to youthful Love, in accents weakWith wine, and age, and passion. Youthful Love!He dwells in Chia's cheek,And hears her harp-strings move.Rude boy, he flies like lightning o'er the heathPast wither'd trees like you; you're wrinkled now;The white has left your teethAnd settled on your brow.Your Coan silks, your jewels bright as stars,Ah no! they bring not back the days of old,