AGAIN the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driven,
And you, tho scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer Heaven.
No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail;
I send you more than India boasts,
In Edwins simple tale.
Our sex with guile, and faithless love,
Is chargd, perhaps too true;
But may, dear maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to you.
