At fifty-six, if this be true,
Am I a poet fit for you? 
Or, at the age of forty-three,
Are you a subject fit for me? 
Adieu! bright wit, and radiant eyes! 
You must be grave and I be wise. 
Our fate in vain we would oppose: 
But I’ll be still your friend in prose: 
Esteem and friendship to express,
Will not require poetic dress;
And if the Muse deny her aid
To have them sung, they may be said. 
  But, Stella, say, what evil tongue
Reports you are no longer young;
That Time sits with his scythe to mow
Where erst sat Cupid with his bow;
That half your locks are turn’d to gray? 
I’ll ne’er believe a word they say. 
’Tis true, but let it not be known,
My eyes are somewhat dimmish grown;
For nature, always in the right,
To your decays adapts my sight;
And wrinkles undistinguished pass,
For I’m ashamed to use a glass: 
And till I see them with these eyes,
Whoever says you have them, lies. 
  No length of time can make you quit
Honour and virtue, sense and wit;
Thus you may still be young to me,
While I can better hear than see. 
O ne’er may Fortune show her spite,
To make me deaf, and mend my sight![1]

[Footnote 1:  Now deaf, 1740.—­Swift.  This pathetic note was in Swift’s writing in his own copy of the “Miscellanies,” edit. 1727-32.—­W.  E. B.]

BEC’S[1] BIRTH-DAY NOV. 8, 1726

This day, dear Bec, is thy nativity;
Had Fate a luckier one, she’d give it ye. 
She chose a thread of greatest length,
And doubly twisted it for strength: 
Nor will be able with her shears
To cut it off these forty years. 
Then who says care will kill a cat? 
Rebecca shows they’re out in that. 
For she, though overrun with care,
Continues healthy, fat, and fair. 
  As, if the gout should seize the head,
Doctors pronounce the patient dead;
But, if they can, by all their arts,
Eject it to the extremest parts,
They give the sick man joy, and praise
The gout that will prolong his days. 
Rebecca thus I gladly greet,
Who drives her cares to hands and feet: 
For, though philosophers maintain
The limbs are guided by the brain,
Quite contrary Rebecca’s led;
Her hands and feet conduct her head;
By arbitrary power convey her,
She ne’er considers why or where: 
Her hands may meddle, feet may wander,
Her head is but a mere by-stander: 
And all her bustling but supplies
The part of wholesome exercise. 
Thus nature has resolved to pay her
The cat’s nine lives, and eke the care. 
  Long may she live, and help her friends
Whene’er it suits her private ends;
Domestic business never mind
Till coffee has her stomach lined;
But, when her breakfast gives her courage,
Then think on Stella’s chicken porridge: 
I mean when Tiger[2]has been served,