Two wayward imps, all smiles or tears,
With large round eyes of ceaseless wonder,
Small pitchers with extensive ears,
And fingers prone to urchin plunder.
Two whisp’ ring lovers — blissful pair!
Is he the rogue? or hath she trick’ d him?
Unless he dupes his mistress there,
The chances are, he’ ll fall a victim.
Two toiling ones of sober age
( Their bet with Care a losing wager );
They own, though now so very sage,
They might have been a trifle sager!
Two frail old wretches, sick and sad,
Yet sore dismayed lest Death should take them,
— Come, hang it, things, though passing bad,
Are not so bad as some would make them:
For, like yon clock, when twelve shall sound,
The call these poor old souls obeying,
Together shall their hands be found,
An earnest they are humbly praying!