Classic Poem

As You Apollo 's Eldest Off-spring are,
You of his Spirit claim a double Share;
Still warm tho' old, like your Immortal Sire,
Your Flame of Wit is an Eternal Fire:
Your Bays shall never fade; your flowing Vein
Phaebus with all his Heat can never drain!
True Wit, like Wine, thro' Age does riper grow,
Brisker and clearer, nay and stronger too;
Nor shews thy long-liv'd Muse the least Decay,
But in old Age new Glories does display:
As the Majestic Beauties of last Age
Our Wonder more than All of This engage;
And All of this, daub'd o'er by us, out-shine,
In Vandike 's well-drawn Images, and Thine.
Yours, like the Works of fam'd old Painters grow
The more our Shame, the more we'd follow you;
While ours, the half-begotten of this Age,
Prove but the Weakness of their Parentage.
Thus your old Laurels flourish to this Day,
Like full-grown Trees, themselves to Heav'n display,
And see young Suckers under them decay.
So Wits, as Beauties, by your Verses made,
You live to see neglected, e'er decay'd;
And while we scorn their unharmonious Song,
Your Harp is still in Tune, tho' strung so long:

Though Age does now your Days and Eyes benight,
You still preserve your Reason's clearer Light;
So phaebus , after all his Course, appears
Bright as at first, and as unchang'd by Years;
Does nothing of his Fire or Lustre lose,
But sets at last, as glorious as he rose!