But should some swain more skilful than the rest, Not rolling ages could deface that name ; Through all the storms of life 'tis still the same : Though length of years with moss may shade the ground, Deep, though unseen, remains the secret wound. TO THE EARL OF MIDDLETON, [From Ratisbon.] BY SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE. SINCE love and verse, as well as wines, Than the bright Nymphs of gentle Thames, But hunger forces men to eat, Though no temptation 's in the meat. Should they behold her at a play, The badges of her nobleness; Whose brawny limbs and martial face But there's another sort of creatures, Nature, her active minister, Neglects affairs, and will not stir; Thinks it not worth the while to please, But when she does it for her ease. Ev'n I, her most devout adorer, With wandering thoughts appear before her: And, when I'm making an oblation, Am fain to spur imagination With some sham London inclination : |