Like South-sea stock, expressions rise and fall:
King Edward's words are now no words at all.
Did aught our predecessors genius cramp?
Sure every reign may have its proper stamp.
All sublunary things of death partake;
What alteration does a cent'ry make?
Kings and comedians are all mortal found,
Caesar and Pinkethman are underground.
What's not destroy'd by Time's devouring hand?
Where's Troy, and where's the may-pole in the Strand?
Pease, cabbages, and turnips once grew, where
Now stands New Bond-street, and a newer square;
Such piles of buildings now rise up and down,
London itself seems going out of town.
Our fathers cross'd from Fulham in a wherry,
Their sons enjoy a bridge at Putney-ferry.
Think we that modern words eternal are?
Toupet and Tompion, Cosins, and Colmar
Hereafter will be call'd, by some plain man,
A wig, a watch, a pair of stays, a fan.
To things themselves if time such change affords,
Can there be any trusting to our words?