Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently pressed, press gently mine, 35
My Mary!
Such feebleness of limbs thou prov’st
That now at every step thou mov’st
Upheld by two; yet still thou lov’st,
My Mary! 40
And still to love, though pressed with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,