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