she fifteen, No poet ever sweetly sung, Unless he were, like Phoebus, young; Nor ever nymph inspired to rhyme, Unless, like Venus, in her prime. At fifty-six, if this be true, Am I a poet fit for you? Or, at the age of forty-three, Are you a subject fit for me? Adieu! bright wit, and radiant eyes! You must be grave and I be wise. Our fate in vain we would oppose:      But I'll be still your friend in prose:      Esteem and friendship to express, Will not require poetic dress; And if the Muse deny her aid To have them sung, they may be said. But, Stella, say, what evil tongue Reports you are no longer young;      That Time sits with his scythe to mow Where erst sat Cupid with his bow; That half your locks are turn'd to gray? I'll ne'er believe a word they say.      'Tis true, but let it not be known, My eyes are somewhat dimmish grown; For nature, always in the right, To your decays adapts my sight; And wrinkles undistinguished pass, For I'm ashamed to use a glass:      And till I see them with these eyes, Whoever says you have them, lies. No length of time can make you quit Honour and virtue, sense and wit; Thus you may still be young to me, While I can better hear than see. O ne'er may Fortune show her spite, To make me deaf, and mend my sight![1]       [Footnote 1: Now deaf, 1740.—Swift. This pathetic note was in Swift's writing in his own copy of the "Miscellanies," edit. 1727-32.—W. E. B.] 

  

  

       BEC'S[1] BIRTH-DAY NOV. 8, 1726     

      This day, dear Bec, is thy nativity; Had Fate a luckier one, she'd give it ye. She chose a thread of greatest length, And doubly twisted it for strength:      Nor will be able with her shears To cut it off these forty years. Then who says care will kill a cat? Rebecca shows they're out in that. For she, though overrun with care, Continues healthy, fat, and fair. As, if the gout should seize the head, Doctors pronounce the patient dead; But, if they can, by all their arts, Eject it to the extremest parts, They give the sick man joy, and praise The gout that will prolong his days. Rebecca thus I gladly greet, Who drives her cares to hands and feet:      For, though philosophers maintain The limbs are guided by the brain, Quite contrary Rebecca's led; Her hands and feet conduct her head; By arbitrary power convey her, She ne'er considers why or 

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