Be thou the  true Merit to befriend,
Praise is lost, who stays till  commend.
Short is the Date, alas, of Modern Rhymes,
And 'tis but just to let 'em live
No longer now that Golden Age appears,
When  surviv'd a ;
Now Length of  (our second Life) is lost,
And bare  is all ev'n That can boast:
Our Sons their Father's  see,
And such as  is, shall  be.
So when the faithful Pencil has design'd
Some  of the Master's Mind,
Where a  leaps out at his command,
And ready Nature waits upon his Hand;
When the ripe Colours  and
And sweetly  into just Shade and Light,
When mellowing Time does full Perfection give,
And each Bold Figure just begins to ;
The  in few Years decay,
And all the bright Creation fades away!