How it fades by the torches of Time;
Every moment that flows
200 Steals the gloss from the rose;
Then catch the bright hue while it pleases,
And fix the fair face in it’s prime.
XXI.
Nay-- thus, great Artist, has thy hand
To half the high-born beauty of the land
A permanence ensur’d,
And from th’ attacks of wrinkling age,