LXXVII

    Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste； These vacant leaves thy mind's imprint¹ will bear, And of this book, this learning mayst thou taste. The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show Of mouthed graves will give thee memory； Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know Time's thievish progress to eternity². Look！ what thy memory cannot contain, Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain, To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. These offices, so oft as thou wilt³ look, Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.