Pitying each form that hungry Death has marr’d,
And filling it once more with human soul?”
In such a spot Blair lingers, to apostrophize beauty, as a pretty plaything, a dear deceit, which the grave discredits. The charms expunged, the roses faded, and the lilies soiled, what has beauty more to boast of? Will the lovers of it flock round it now, to gaze and do it homage?
“Methinks I see thee with thy head low laid,
While, surfeited upon thy damask cheek,
The high-fed worm, in lazy volumes roll’d,
Riots unscared. For this was all thy caution?
For this thy painful labours at the glass,
T’ improve those charms, and keep them in repair,
For which the spoiler thanks thee not?”