Nay this great City may be lost in Flames,
And what are Villa's, may be desart Plains.
The Bleating Flocks, on ruin'd Fabricks stray,
And what were Temples, now in Ashes lay:
The Groves arise where Gilded Turrets shone,
And what are Gardens now, were Heaps of Stone.
Yet Those, and They, will in Oblivion lye,
And all, in future Times, forgot, and die.
Why then should Artists challenge future Praise,
When Time devours their Works so many Ways?