To M[Ary] L[Aetitia] F[Ield]

(Expecting to See Her Again after a Long Interval)

How many wasting, many wasted years, Have run their round, since I beheld your face! In Memory's dim eye it yet appears Crowned, as it then seemed, with a chearful grace. Young prattling Maiden, on the Thames' fair side, Enlivening pleasant Sunbury with your smiles, Time may have changed you: coy reserve, or pride, To sullen looks reduced those mirthful wiles. I will not 'bate one smile on that clear brow, But take of Time a rigorous account, When next I see you; and Maria now Must be the Thing she was. To what amount These verses else?--all hollow and untrue-- This was not writ, these lines not meant, for YOU.