Oh, Time! thy merits who can know?
Thy real nature who discover?
The absent lover calls thee slow,—
"Too rapid," says the happy lover.

With bloom thy cheeks are now refin'd,
Now to thine eye the tear is given;
At once too cruel and too kind,—
A little hell, a little heaven.

Go then, thou charming myst'ry, go!—
Yes, tho' thou often dost amuse me,
Tho' many a joy to thee I owe,
At once I thank thee and abuse thee.