Classic Poem

At sight of sparkling Bowls or beauteous Dames
When fondness melts me, or when wine inflames,
I too can feel the rapture fierce and strong
I too can pour the extemporary song;
But though the number for a moment please,
Though musick thrills, or sudden sallies seize,
Yet lay the Sonnet for an hour aside,
Its charms are fled and all its power destroy'd:
What soon is perfect, soon alike is past:
That slowly grows which must for ever last.