WRITTEN JANUARY FIRST, 1792. Janet Little (later Richmond) Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T126549 Little, Janet, 1759-1813. The Poetical Works of Janet Little, the Scotch Milkmaid. Air Printed by John & Peter Wilson 1792 pp. [106]-110.

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WRITTEN JANUARY FIRST , 1792. TO-DAY old wrinkl'd Time appears ; A smile adorns his brow , While to our list of fleeting years , He adds the ninety-two . Our fav'rite hopes , that swiftly glide , Announce his steps too slow , Lest Disappointment's hazy stride Should ev'ry bliss o'erthrow . He softly creeps along the way , While we his progress watch : He turns his back , vain our essay His bald-pate then to catch . On his right hand a lovely dame , In robes of crimson hue ; Her eyes our admiration claim , Her form attracts our view ; Distant her air , staid , sapient , mild , A figure fine and tall ; By Wisdom own'd , her legal child , Who did her Prudence call . With vermil lips , in accents sweet , Soft as that falling snow , There words I heard the nymph repeat , Address'd to all below : " In Virtue's cause exert your pow'rs , Let her your actions sway ; Employ with speed the passing hours , Nor trust another day . " On his left hand , with tardy pace , Here walks a maid forlorn ; Lank hunger painted on her face , Her scanty raiment torn : Rich Luxury her father deem'd , Idle her dam confess'd ; In public by no man esteem'd , In secret much caress'd . With smirking smile , and speeches fair , She does us kindly greet ; But sage Experience cries , " Beware ! She'll prove an arrant cheat . " This now the lazy warrior finds , His sword with rust adorn'd ; Half plann'd as yet his dire designs , His conquests unperform'd . She'll spoil the politician's scheme , The patriot's gen'rous toil ; For Sloth is the impostor's name , O deign her not a smile . She whisper'd in young Strephon's ear , When Delia seem'd to frown , That soon she'd change that look severe , And all his wishes crown . Lull'd in her soft , alluring chain , His success did prevent ; Till Delia found an active swain , And left him to lament . Poor Chloe's comrade , air and late , While pow'rs she had to charm ; Those gone , she feels the sad deceit , And gives the loud alarm . In vain each specious art she tries ; Vain the cosmetic aid : She must be what all ranks despise , An old forsaken maid . Sloth , of society the pest , Of ev'ry bliss the bane , May we the latent ills detest , Which form thy direful train . Our helm let Prudence ever steer ; She'll shield us from the blast ; And ev'ry new , revolving year , Remind us of our last . Direct our course to yonder shore , Where virtue ever reigns ; Where time and seasons are no more ; Where death is bound in chains . Unvari'd there the blissful scene , ' Mid seraphims above , All pure , all placid , and serene , All harmony and love .