With eyes, un-brib'd, by your enchanting view,
I trac'd, impartial, your soft numbers thro'?
Your loose-dress'd fancy , in each sparkling line,
Gilds the gay current of your deep design.
Your poem, strongly fine, and softly bold,
Is silkworm's labour, spun, with threads of gold.
Go on, bright maid! nor doubt the world's applause;
Wit , arm'd with looks , like yours, the critic awes!
Tho' years may knit, and lengthen your success,
Think not your youth will your due praise oppress :
Ev'n the broad sun , when, first, his glories rise,
With struggling tincture, streaks the eastern skies,
But soon, thro' heav'n's enlighten'd orbs , the conquering lustre flies.