As When A Beauteous Nymph Decays, We Say SHe's Past Her Dancing Days; So Poets Lose Their Feet By Time, And Can No Longer Dance In Rhyme. Your Annual Bard Had Rather Chose To Celebrate Your Birth In Prose: Yet Merry Folks, Who Want By Chance A Pair To Make A Country Dance, Call The Old Housekeeper, And Get Her To Fill A Place For Want Of Better: While Sheridan Is Off The Hooks, And Friend Delany At His Books, That Stella May Avoid Disgrace, Once More The Dean Supplies Their Place. Beauty And Wit, Too Sad A Truth! Have Always Been Confined To Youth; The God Of Wit And Beauty'S Queen, He Twenty-One And She Fifteen, No Poet Ever Sweetly Sung, Unless He Were, Like Phoebus, Young; Nor Ever Nymph Inspired To Rhyme, Unless, Like Venus, In Her Prime. 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 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 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; Thus You May Still Be Young To Me, While I Can Better Hear Than See. O Ne'er May Fortune Show Her Spite, To Make Me Deaf, And Mend My Sight![1]