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The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore

Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes
  

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And who, my dear Kitty, would not do the same?
What's eau de Cologne to the sweet breath of fame?
Yards of riband soon end—but the measures of rhyme,
Dipp'd in hues of the rainbow, stretch out through all time.
Gloves languish and fade away, pair after pair,
While couplets shine out, but the brighter for wear,
And the dancing-shoe's gloss in an evening is gone,
While light-footed lyrics through ages trip on.