Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold.

Now morn, her rosy steps in th' eastern clime Advancing, sow'd the earth with orient pearl, When Adam wak'd, so custom'd; for his sleep Was aery light, from pure digestion bred.

Imparadis'd in one another's arms.

Good luck befriend thee, Son; for at thy birth The fairy ladies danced upon the hearth.

Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!

Innumerable as the stars of night, Or stars of morning, dewdrops which the sun Impearls on every leaf and every flower.