  Poets may boast, as safely vain, Their works shall with the world remain: Both bound together, live or die, The verses and the prophecy. But who can hope his line should long Last, in a daily-changing tongue? While they are new, envy prevails; And as that dies our language fails. When architects have done their part, The matter may betray their art: Time, if we use ill-chosen stone, Soon brings a well-built palace down. Poets, that lasting marble seek, Must carve in Latin or in Greek: We write in sand, our language grows, And, like the tide, our work o'erflows. Chaucer his sense can only boast, The glory of his numbers lost! Years have defac't his matchless strain, And yet he did not sing in vain. The beauties which adorn'd that age, The shining subjects of his rage, Hoping they should immortal prove, Rewarded with success his love. And all an English pen can hope; To make the fair approve his flame, That can so far extend their fame. Verse thus design'd has no ill fate, If it arrive but at the date Of fading beauty, if it prove But as long-liv'd as present love. |
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