Some Judge Of Authors' Names,

Fickle Fortune Reigns, And, Undiscerning, Scatters Crowns And Chains.

The Doubtful Beam Long Nods From Side To Side.

Grave Authors Say, And Witty Poets Sing, That Honest Wedlock Is A Glorious Thing.

Nor Fame I Slight, Nor Her Favors Call.

See The Wild Waste Of All-devouring Years! How Rome Her Own Sad Sepulchre Appears, With Nodding Arches, Broken Temples Spread! The Very Tombs Now Vanish'd Like Their Dead!