Page:The Battle of the Books, and Other Short Pieces.djvu/128

 At fifty-six, if this be true, Am I a poet fit for you; Or at the age of forty-three, Are you a subject fit for me? Adieu bright wit, and radiant eyes; You must be grave, and I be wise. Our fate in vain we would oppose, But I'll be still your friend in prose; Esteem and friendship to express, Will not require poetic dress; And if the muse deny her aid To have them sung, they may be said. But, Stella say, what evil tongue Reports you are no longer young? That Time sits with his scythe to mow Where erst sat Cupid with his bow; That half your locks are turned to grey; I'll ne'er believe a word they say. 'Tis true, but let it not be known, My eyes are somewhat dimish grown; For nature, always in the right, To your decays adapts my sight, And wrinkles undistinguished pass, For I'm ashamed to use a glass; And till I see them with these eyes, Whoever says you have them, lies. No length of time can make you quit Honour and virtue, sense and wit,