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Poem	Stella this day is thirty-four, (We shan't dispute a year or more:) However, Stella, be not troubled, Although thy size and years are doubled, Since first I saw thee at sixteen, The brightest virgin on the green; So little is thy form declin'd; Made up so largely in thy mind. Oh, would it please the gods to split Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit; No age could furnish out a pair Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair; With half the lustre of your eyes, With half your wit, your years, and size. And then, before it grew too late, How should I beg of gentle Fate, (That either nymph might have her swain,) To split my worship too in twain.
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