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On His Being
Arrived to the Age of Twenty-three.
How soon hath
Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stol'n on his wing
my three and twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on
with full career,
But my late spring no bud or
blossom shew'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive
the truth,
That I to manhood am arrived so near,
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some
more timely-happy spirits indu'th.
Yet be it less or
more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest
measure ev'n
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n;
All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my
great Task-master's eye.
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