The Temple of Fame.
41
When thus ripe Lyes are to perfection sprung,
Full grown, and fit to grace a mortal Tongue,
Thro' thousand Vents, impatient forth they flow,
And rush in Millions on the World below.
Fame sits aloft, and points them out their Course,
Their Date determines, and prescribes their Force:
Some to remain, and some to perish soon,
Or wane and wax alternate like the Moon.
Around a thousand winged Wonders fly,
Born by the Trumpet's Blast, and scatter'd thro' the Sky.
There, at one Passage, oft you might survey
A Lye and Truth contending for the way;
And long 'twas doubtful, both so closely pent,
Which first should issue thro' the narrow Vent:
At
