Which through the course of tedious Time but ebbs:
The wrinkling canvass's face needs restoring
From assailing year's dirty dusts and webs.
The virtue of a sculpture's kindred with
Untruthful love, who could never outlive
The breadth of wearying Time's unending width.
Dishonest Love, statues--- all corrosive.
But True Love and Poetry are both akin.
Both endure, and both, through time grow but strong.
In my poetry, my dear, you're reining Queen
Over hours, days, years--- over all Time's throng!
My Grace, thy fair face, thy virtues divine,
Shall age in my verse as eternal wine.
- The Knight of Hillsborough