His hands, his heart, his head are mine;
Then what haft thou to call him thine?

Nay rather ask, the Monarch faid,

What boots his hand, his heart, his head,

Were what I gave remov'd ?

away

Thy part's an idle fhape of clay

Halves, more than halves! cry'd honest Care,

Your pleas wou'd make your titles fair,
You claim the body, you the foul,

But I who join'd them, claim the whole.
Thus with the Gods debate began,

On fuch a trivial caufe, as Man.

And can celeftial tempers rage?

Quoth Virgil, in a later

age.

As thus they wrangled, Time came by;

(There's none that paint him fuch as I,

For what the fabling Ancients fung

Makes Saturn old, when Time was young.)

As

yet

his winters had not shed

Their filver honours on his head;

He

He juft had got his pinions free,

From his old fire Eternity.

A ferpent girdled round he wore,

The tail within the mouth, before;

By which our almanacks are clear
That learned Ægypt meant the year.
A ftaff he carry'd, where on high
A glafs was fix'd to measure by,

As amber boxes made a fhow

For heads of canes an age ago.

His veft, for day, and night, was py'd ;
A bending fickle arm'd his fide;

And Spring's new months his train adorn!

The other Seafons were unborn.

Known by the Gods, as near he draws,

They make him umpire of the cause.

O'er a low trunk his arm he laid,

Where fince his hours a dial made ;
Then leaning heard the nice debate,

And thus pronounc'd the words of Fate.

Since body from the parent Earth,
And foul from Jove receiv'd a birth,
Return they were they firft began;
But fince their union makes the Man,
'Till Jove and Earth shall part these two,
To Care who joined them, Man is due.
He said, and sprung with swift career
To trace a circle for the year;
Where ever fince the Seasons wheel,
And tread on one another's heel.

'Tis well, faid Jove, and for confent
Thund'ring he fhook the firmament.
Our umpire Time fhall have his way,
With Care I let the creature ftay :
Let bus'nefs vex him, av'rice blind,

Let doubt and knowledge rack his mind,

Let error act, opinion speak,

And want afflict, and ficknefs break,

And anger burn, dejection chill,

And joy diftract, and forrow kill.

'Till

'Till arm'd by Care, and taught to mow, Time draws the long deftructive blow;

And wafted Man, whofe quick decay

Comes hurrying on before his day,

Shall only find by this decree,

The foul flies fooner back to me.

My change arrives; the change I meet,

Before I thought it nigh.

My spring, my years of pleasure fleet,

And all their beauties dye.

In age I fearch, and only find

A poor unfruitful gain,

Grave wisdom stalking flow behind,
Opprefs'd with loads of pain.

My ignorance cou'd once beguile,
And fancy'd joys inspire;
My errors cherish'd Hope to smile
On newly-born defire.

But now experience fhews, the bliss

For which I fondly fought,

Not worth the long impatient wish,

And ardour of the thought.

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