The proud long hours amble at tedious rate,
For that they know they bear the weight of thee,
Even the tripping minutes borrow state,
And, oft return, playing bo-peep with me;
Their cunning thinks to lengthen out my pain,
Or, woo weak prescience, with some fearful mine;
They ne’er suspect how joy shall, in this strain,
Usurp a minute’s woe, in every line:
To draw thy lineaments, the painter’s pride,
The marble’s glory, thy limbs’ mobile grace,
’Tis mine, to celebrate thy virtuous side,
How firm consistent, in such temple’s space.
To express its all would tire, though charm the time,
Some part befits the occasion, and my rhyme.