With Beattie's Poems for a New-Year's Gift. Jan. 1. 1787.

Again the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driv'n,
And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer Heav'n.

No gifts 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;
But may, dear Maid, each Lover prove
An Edwin still to you.