All mem’ry of endearments past,
All hope of comfort long to last,
All that makes fourteen years with you
A summer—and a short one too;
All that affection feels and fears,
When hours without you, seem like years;
Till that be done, (and I’d as soon
Believe this knife will chip the moon)
Accept my present undeterr’d,
And leave their proverbs to the herd.