What ! your own spring you never heed,
But talk of tenderness indeed,
To me, whose youth bowed down appears
Beneath the weight of forty years !
Once I but needed, for my part,
Some poor grisette to fire my heart : 
Ah ! wherefore can I not for you,
As for Rosette, feel love anew ?

Superbly clad, in carriage gay,
You are paraded day by day :
Rosette, in dresses fresh and neat,
Would laughing trip along the street;
Whilst, just to frighten me, her glances
To ogling seemed to make advances.
Ah ! wherefore can I not for you,
As for Rosette, feel love anew ?

In this boudoir, with satin decked,
Mirrors by scores your smiles reflect:
Rosette possessed one glass alone ;
I thought it was the Graces' own.
No curtains closed around her head ;
The sunrise cheered her little bed :
Ah ! wherefore can I not for you,
As for Rosette, feel love anew ?

Your sparkling wit might well inspire
With its bright flashes many a lyre:
I blush not to confess it true,
Rosette her letters scarcely knew ;
And when at loss her words to choose,
Love, as interpreter, would use.
Ah ! wherefore can I not for you,
As for Rosette, feel love anew ?

With yours compared, her charms were few;
Her very heart less tender too :
Nor looked she with so soft an eye
On happy lover listening by.
But still she charmed me; for, in sooth, 
Hers was my much-regretted youth !
Ah ! wherefore can I not for you,
As for Rosette, feel love anew ?