Again the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driven
And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime
Are so much nearer heaven.
No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail;
I send you more than India boasts,
In Edwin’s simple tale.
Our sex with guile, and faithless love,
Is charg’d, perhaps too true,
But mau, dear maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to you.