Read it through once

And you, great sculptor--so, you gave A score of years to Art, her slave, And that’s your Venus, whence we turn To yonder girl that fords the burn! You acquiesce, and shall I repine? What, man of music, you grown gray With notes and nothing else to say, Is this your sole praise from a friend, “Greatly his opera’s strains intend, But in music we know how fashions end!” I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine.