html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }As quiet Monarchs that on peaceful Thrones
In Sports and Revels long had Reign'd like Drones:
Rousing at length, reflect with Guilt and Shame,
That not One Stroke had yet been giv'n for Fame;
Wars they proclaim, and to redeem the past,
To bold Attempts and rugged Labours haste.
Our Poet so: with like Concern reviews
The Youthful Follies of his Love-sick Muse.
To Amorous Toils, and to the Silent Grove;
To Beauty's Snares, and to deceitful Love,
He bids Farewel: His Shield and Launce prepares,
And mounts the Stage, to bid Immortal Wars.
Vice, like some Monster, suff'ring none t' escape,
Has seiz'd the Town, and varies still her Shape.
Here, like a General she struts in State,
While Crowds in Red and Blue her Orders wait.
There, like some pensive Statesman, walks Demure,
And smiles and huggs, to make Destruction sure.
Now under high Commodes with Looks Erect,
Bare-fac'd devours in gawdy Colours deck.
Then in a Vizard, to avoid Grimace,
Allows all Freedom but to see the Face.
In Pulpits and at Bar, she wears a Gown;
In Camps a Sword, in Palaces a Crown.
Resolv'd to Combat with this Motly Beast,
Our Poet comes to strike One Stroke at least.
His Glass he means, not for this Jilt or Beau,
Some Features of you all he hopes to shew
On chosen Heads; nor lets the Thunder fall,
But scatters his Artillery at All.
Yet to the Fair he fain wou'd Quarter show,
His tender Heart recoils at every Blow.
If unawares he give too smart a Stroke,
He means but to Correct, and not Provoke.