Some six and thirty years or so,
Another Bard your praise should sing
When you had reached your sixtieth Spring.
That sixtieth spring has come—to you,
My Dearest Soul, the verse is due.
Nor ever thine more fit t’inspire
The heart’s delight, the Poet’s fire,
Than Charms, unfading Charms, like yours,
Than merit which the test endures
Of health and sickness, smiles and tears,