Yet then, e’en then the hand but ill conveys
The bolder grace, that in the fancy plays.
Hence, candid critics, this sad truth confest,
Accept what least is bad, and deem it best;
Lament the soul in error’s thraldom held,
Compare life’s span with art’s extensive field;
Know that ere perfect taste matures the mind,
Or perfect practice to that taste be join’d,
Comes age, comes sickness, comes contracting pain,
And chills the warmth of youth in every vein.