Oh, Time! thy merits who can know?
Thy real nature who discover?
The absent lover calls thee slow, —
" Too rapid, " says the happy lover.

With bloom thy cheeks are now refin'd,
Now to thine eye the tear is given;
At once too cruel and too kind, —
A little hell, a little heaven.

Go then, thou charming myst'ry, go! —
Yes, tho' thou often dost amuse me,
Tho' many a joy to thee I owe,
At once I thank thee and abuse thee.