'TIS true the marks of many years

'TIS true the marks of many years
Upon my wrinkled front appears,
Yet have I no such idle fears
This will my fortune spoil:
Gold still some happiness bestows,
E'en where no youthful ardour glows;
For proof, dear girl, take these rouleaus,
And give me a sweet smile.

'Tis true upon my haggard face,
No marks of beauty can you trace,
Nor wears my figure ought of grace,
To ensure the lover's bliss:
Yet am I no such horrid fright,
But that bank notes may set things right,
Take then these bills all drawn at sight,
And give me a sweet kiss.

'Tis true I know not to be kind,
And that within my hardened mind
No more a jewel can you find
Than beauty in my face:
But one within this casket here,
May make amends, its lustre's clear,
Nor shall I think I've sold it dear,
Paid by a sweet embrace.