How can'st thou hope to fly the world, in vain
From Europe sever'd by the circling main:
Sought by the kings of every distant land,
And every heroe worthy of thy hand.
Hast thou forgot that mighty Bourbon fear'd
He still was mortal, till thy draught appear'd;
That Cosmo chose thy glowing form to place
Amidst her masters of the Lombard race?
See on her Titian's and her Guido's urns,
Her failing arts, forlorn Hesperia mourns;
While Britain wins each garland from her brow,
Her wit and freedom first, her painting now.