TO MRS THRALE,

Oft in danger, yet alive,

We are come to thirty-five;

Long may better years arrive,

Better years than thirty-five.

Could philosophers contrive

Life to stop at thirty-five,

Time his hours should never drive

O'er the bounds of thirty-five.

High to soar, and deep to dive,

Nature gives at thirty-five;

Ladies, stock and tend your hive,

Trifle not at thirty-five;

For, howe'er we boast and strive,

Life declines from thirty-five;

He that ever hopes to thrive,

Must begin by thirty-five;

And all who wisely wish to wive

Must look on Thrale at thirty-five.