Perhaps, suspending mortal rage,
By silent sap, and creeping age,
By subtile, secret, slow approaches,
As mildew on the blade incroaches,
Thou hop'st, malignant fiend! to tame
The ardour of love's fiercest flame —
Vain shalt thou find thy keenest blast,
Bliss once possess'd, thy power is past.
Can years, while sense remains, destroy
The memory of transcendent joy?
Can years bright Innocence impair?
Can years make Virtue look less fair?