To M[ary] L[aetitia] F[ield]

How many wasting, many wasted years,
Have run their round, since I beheld your face!
In Memory's dim eye it yet appears
Crowned, as it then seemed, with a chearful grace.
Young prattling Maiden, on the Thames' fair side,
Enlivening pleasant Sunbury with your smiles,
Time may have changed you: coy reserve, or pride,
To sullen looks reduced those mirthful wiles.
I will not 'bate one smile on that clear brow,
But take of Time a rigorous account,
When next I see you; and Maria now
Must be the Thing she was. To what amount
These verses else?--all hollow and untrue--
This was not writ, these lines not meant, for YOU.