Page:The works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld volume 1.djvu/247

Rh Eleven years may vastly change: No more the Provinces he'll range; No more with humid eyes entreat, And wait his doom at Beauty's feet; Married and grave, he'll spend his time Far from the idleness of rime; Forgetting oranges and myrtle, Will drink his port and eat his turtle; Perhaps with country justice sit, And turn his back on thee and Wit. For thee, my friend, whose copious vein Pours forth at will the polished strain, With every talent formed to please, Each fair idea quick to seize;— Who knows within so long a space What scenes the present may efface, What course thy stream of life may take, What winds may curl, what storms may shake,