On Piers Being Arrived at the Age of Thirty-Three

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, 

Stol'n on his wing Piers' third-and-thirtieth year!

His hasting days fly on with full career, 

But his late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.

Perhaps his bracket might deceive the truth

That he to vict'ry shan't arrive so near;

And all his thoughts doth on this blog appear, 

That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.

Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,

It shall be still in strictest measure loose

To that same lot, however mean or high, 

Toward which Time leads him, and the Orange of 'Cuse: 

All is, if he has grace to use it so

As ever in the great Big-Easter's eye.

(with sincere apologies to John Milton)