Again the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driven,
And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer Heaven.
Nogifts have I from Indian coasts
The 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;
Butmay, dear maid, each lover prove
AnEdwin still to you.