Again the silent wheels of timeTheir annual round have driven,And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime,Are so much nearer Heaven.
No gifts have I from Indian coastsThe infant year to hail;I send you more than India boasts,In Edwin’s simple tale.
Our sex with guile, and faithless love,Is charg’d, perhaps too true;But may, dear maid, each lover proveAn Edwin still to you.