9
My years glide downwards, and my Summer’s pride mergeth in Autumn, passing, ah! how soon; Fortune my Genius chills, and loves to chide my Poet-soul no more my boast and boon: Hopes long deferrèd bear me to the tide of black Oblivion, and eternal Swoon: But deign to grant me thou, the Muses’ Queen, to praise my People with my proper strain!