And Time for ever wears 'em.
That Love with her ne'er thinks of wings,
Love takes his turn to-morrow.
The boy full oft can spare 'em;
He lets the gray-beard wear 'em.
So, loitering in his lady's bower,
With Love and Time much better.
But short the moments, short as bright,
That Love and Time have only got
And t'other takes to flying.
Oh, how he flies, flies away!
This is Time's holiday;
If Time to-day has had his flight,
When he the wings can borrow;
Then is Love's hour to stray;
Oh, how be flies, flies away!
Ah! Time and Love, your change is then
Who knows, the dear one, how to deal
So peacefully she pairs 'em,
And bless the silken fetter,
So well she checks their wanderings,
'Tis said—but whether true or not
When one begins to limp again,
Let bards declare who've seen 'em—
The saddest and most trying,
Then is Time's hour of play;
Oh, how he flies, flies away!
But there's a nymph, whose chains I feel,
In Courtship's first delicious hour,
One pair of wings between 'em.