To Mrs. Thrale On Her Completing Her Thirty-Fifth Year

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, stop 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.