Blush first in blood, and then in rust:
No oil but that of her smooth words can serve
Weapon and warrior to preserve.
Expect no more from this dull age
80But folly or poetic rage,
Short-liv'd nothings of the stage,
Vented to-day, and cried to-morrow down;
With her the soul of Poesie is gone,
Gone, while our expectations flew
As high a pitch as she has done,