We fondly gaze with rapture and delight, When lovely Beauty strikes our wond'ring sight, But soon reflection rushes on the brain, And Beauty quits her transitory reign; That lovely, blooming, fading, dying flower, Bereft of Wit's, the play-thing of an hour, But when to charms like Hebe's there is given, A mind capacious as th' expanse of Heav'n; 'Tis call'd a Mountague, and seems design'd, To shew Perfection's model to mankind!
