Page:An Essay on Criticism - Pope (1711).pdf/36

 When first that Sun too powerful Beams displays, It draws up Vapours which obscure its Rays; But ev'n those Clouds at last adorn its Way, Reflect new Glories, and augment the Day. Be thou the first true Merit to befriend; His Praise is lost, who stays till All commend; Short is the Date, alas, of Modern Rhymes; And 'tis but just to let 'em live betimes. No longer now that Golden Age appears, When Patriarch-Wits surviv'd a thousand Years, Now Length of Fame (our second Life) is lost, And bare Threescore is all ev'n That can boast: Our Sons their Fathers' failing Language see, And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be. So when the faithful Pencil has design'd Some fair Idea of the Master's Mind, Where a new World leaps out at his command, And ready Nature waits upon his Hand; When the ripe Colours soften and unite, And sweetly melt into just Shade and Light, When