Three years ago thy little eyes
Peep’d on the day with optics weak;
Three years ago thy infant cries,
By mortal men were call’d a squeak.
Ev’n then the muse prophetic saw
Thy youthful days, thy latter state,
And sigh’d at the relentless law,
That doom’d thee to an early fate.
Yes, the fond muse has anxious look’d,
While thou a roaster, careless play’dst,