George Henry Boker - CCCVIII lyrics

Love sat at ease upon Time's bony knee; Pulled his grey beard; paddled his finger-tips Among his wrinkles; smote his bloodless lips; With rosy palms, forbade his eyes to see; O'erturned his fatal hour-gla**; wantonly Pulled his scythe-edge against that dart which rips The heart of adamant; cast gibes and quips Straight in his teeth, out-mocking mockery. What said this phantom? Nought; he only smiled To be thus toyed with; held his wasting breath, Lest he might do some damage to the child; Till Love, grown weary of that pastime, saith, "This is too tame; my heart with joy is wild; Come, Father, come! Let us go play with d**h!"