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Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow

Lord Thurlow
Thurlow, Edward Hovell-Thurlow (1781-1829)

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THE ODES OF ANACREON, OF TEOS;
 I. 
ODE I.
 II. 
ODE II.
 III. 
ODE III.
 IV. 
ODE IV.
 V. 
ODE V.
 VI. 
ODE VI.
 VII. 
ODE VII.
 VIII. 
ODE VIII.
 IX. 
ODE IX.
 X. 
ODE X.
 XI. 
ODE XI.
 XII. 
ODE XII.
 XIII. 
ODE XIII.
 XIV. 
ODE XIV.
 XV. 
ODE XV.
 XVI. 
ODE XVI.
 XVII. 
ODE XVII.
 XVIII. 
ODE XVIII.
 XIX. 
ODE XIX.
 XIX. 
ODE XIX.
 XX. 
ODE XX.
 XXI. 
ODE XXI.
 XXII. 
ODE XXII.
 XXIII. 
ODE XXIII.
 XXIV. 
ODE XXIV.
 XXV. 
ODE XXV.
 XXVI. 
ODE XXVI.
 XXVII. 
ODE XXVII.
 XXVIII. 
ODE XXVIII.
 XXX. 
ODE XXX.
 XXXI. 
ODE XXXI.
 XXXII. 
ODE XXXII.
 XXXIII. 
ODE XXXIII.
 XXXIV. 
ODE XXXIV.
 XXXV. 
ODE XXXV.
 XXXVI. 
ODE XXXVI.
 XXXVII. 
ODE XXXVII.
 XXXVIII. 
ODE XXXVIII.
 XXXIX. 
ODE XXXIX.
 XL. 
ODE XL.
 XLI. 
ODE XLI.
 XLII. 
ODE XLII.
 XLIII. 
ODE XLIII.
 XLIV. 
ODE XLIV.
 XLV. 
ODE XLV.
 XLVI. 
ODE XLVI.
 XLVII. 
ODE XLVII.
 XLVIII. 
ODE XLVIII.
 XLIX. 
ODE XLIX.
 L. 
ODE L.
 LI. 
ODE LI.
 LII. 
ODE LII.
 LIII. 
ODE LIII.
 LIV. 
ODE LIV.
 LV. 
ODE LV.

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18

ODE XI.

[“You grow old apace,” they say]

“You grow old apace,” they say,
(Thus with me the women play,)
“O Anacreon, you grow old:
“Take this glass now, and behold
“How your hairs have fall'n away:
“Is this an age for love to play?”
Troth, what to my hair pertains,
If it be gone, or it remains,
Scarce I know: but I know this,
'Tis now time to think of bliss:
Bliss, which is to me more dear,
Inasmuch as death is near.
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