Time will not check his eager flight,
Though gentle A GNES scold,
For 'tis the Sage's dear delight
To make young Ladies old.

Then listen, A GNES , friendship sings;
Seize fast his forelock grey,
And pluck from his careering wings
A feather every day.

Adorn'd with these, defy his rage,
And bid him plough your face,
For every furrow of old age
Shall be a line of grace.

Start not; old age is virtue's prime;
Most lovely she appears,
Clad in the spoils of vanquish'd Time,
Down in the vale of years.

Beyond that vale, in boundless bloom,
The eternal mountains rise;
Virtue descends not to the tomb,
Her rest is in the skies.