For

  1787
  to miss logan, with beattie's poems, for a new-year's gift, jan. 1, 1787.
  again the silent wheels of time
  their annual round have driven,
  and you, tho' scarce in maiden prime,
  are so much nearer heaven.
  no gifts have i from indian coasts
  the infant year to hail;
  i send you more than india boasts,
  in edwin's simple tale.
  our sex with guile, and faithless love,
  is charg'd, perhaps too true;
  but may, dear maid, each lover prove
  an edwin still to you.