t that it blows;
Dims the bright lustre of those eyes
To which the Gods wou'd sacrifice;
Dries the moist lip, and pales its hue,
And brushes off its honied dew;
Flattens the proudly swelling chest,
Furrows the round elastic breast,
And all the Loves that on it play'd,
Are in a tomb of wrinkles laid;
Recalls those charms, which she design'd
To _please_, and not _bewitch_ Mankind;
But with too delicate a touch,
Heightening the _Ornaments_ too much,
She finds her daughters can convert
Blessings to curses, good to hurt,
Proof of parental love to give,
She blots them out that Man may live.

The hour will come (which let not me
Indulgent Nature, live to see!)
The hour will come, when _Chloe_'s form
Shall with its beauty feed the worm;
That face where troops of Cupids throng,
Whose charms first warm'd me into song,
Shall wrinkle, wither, and decay,
To Age, and to Disease, a prey!
_Chloe_, in whom are so combin'd
The charms of body and of mind,
As might to Earth elicit _Jove_,
Thinking his Heav'n well left for Love;
Perfection as she is, the hour
Will come, when she must feel the pow'r
Of _Time_, and to his wither'd arms,
Resign the rifling of her charms!
Must veil her beauties in a cloud,
A grave her bed, her robe a shroud!
When all her glowing, vivid bloom,
Must fade and wither in the tomb!
When she who bears the ensigns now,
Of Beauty's Priestess on her brow,
Shall to th' abhorr'd embrace of Death
Give up the sweetness of her breath!
When worms--but stop, _Description_, there--
My heart cannot the picture bear--
Sickens to think there is a day,
When _Chloe_ will be made a prey
To Death, a piece-meal feast for him
With rav'nous jaw to tear each limb,
And feature after feature eat,
While _Beauty_ only serves for _Meat_--
Wretched to know that this is true,
Forbear t' anticipate the view!
Hence, _Observation_!--take your leave!--
And kindly, _Memory_, deceive!
And when some forty years are fled,
And age has on her beauties fed,
Dear _Self-Delusion_! lend thy skill
To fancy she is _Chloe_ still!

_Cities_ and _Empires_ will decay,
And to _Corruption_ fall a prey!
_Athens_, of arts the native land,
Cou'd not the stroke of Time withstand;
There Serpents hiss, and raven