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. This was the gen'rous poet's scope, 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. ON A GIRDLE. That which her slender waist confin'd Shall now my joyful temples bind; No monarch but would give his crown His arms might do what this has done. It was my heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer: My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move! A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair: Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE.