To Nannette

Time flies, Nannette, to seal our doom, Nor backward turns his head, But sweeps with unremitted plume The living to the dead.

Alas! those eyes, which warm the soul, But gild a summer's day, Too soon in vain their orbs shall roll, And soon their fires decay.

Those dimples, where the Loves reside, And mock the dread of sin, In wrinkles must their glories hide, As if they ne'er had been.

Nor this alone; for age will prey A vulture on the mind, And, stealing brilliant thoughts away, Leave nought but cares behind.

Thee black Reflection shall surprise Neglected, and uncouth, All passions lost, but what suffice To curse thy pride of youth.

Prevent the ills these notes foretell, Be kind, lest men complain, That Nature has but trifled well, And form'd thee fair in vain.