Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/324

312 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 poetick 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 sithe to mow Where erst sat Cupid with his bow; That half your locks are turn'd to gray? I'll ne'er believe a word they say. 'Tis true, but let it not be known, My eyes are somewhat dimmish grown: For nature, always in the right, To your decays adapts my sight; And wrinkles undistinguish'd pass, For I'm asham'd to use a glass; And till I see them with these eyes, Whoever says you have them, lyes. No length of time can make you quit Honour and virtue, sense and wit: Thus you may still be young to me, While I can better hear than see. O, ne'er may Fortune show her spight, To make me deaf, and mend my sight! AN