LIKE South Sea stock, expressions rise and fall: King Edward's words are now no words at all. Did aught your predecessors' genius cramp? Sure ev'ry reign may have its proper stamp. All sublunary things of death partake; What alteration does a cent'ry make? Kings and comedians all are mortal found, Caesar and Pinkethman are under ground. What's not destroyed by time's devouring hand? Where's Troy, and where's the maypole in the Strand? Pease, cabbages and turnips once grew where Now stands New Bond Street and a newer square; Such piles of buildings now rise up and down, London itself seems going out of town. Our fathers crossed from Fulham in a wherry; Their sons enjoy a bridge at Putney-ferry. Think we that modern words eternal are? Toupet and Tompion, Cosins and Colmar, Hereafter will be called by some plain man A wig, a watch, a pair of stays, a fan. To things themselves if time such change affords, Can there be any trusting to our words? |