How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.
So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.
Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.
All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.