Soft, subtle fire, thou soul of art,
Now do thy part
On weaker nature, that through age is lamed.
Take but thy time, now she is old.
And the sun her friend grown cold,
She will no more, in strife with thee be named.

Look, but how few confess her now,
In cheek or brow!
From every head, almost, how she is frighted!
That very age abhors her so,
That it learns to speak and go
As if by art alone it could be righted.
(from Mercury Vindicated)