html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }I ask not why Astræa fled away,
But wonder more, why any Vertues stay;
}In such a World, where they are made a scorn,
Oppress'd by numerous Vice, mangled and torn,
Wounded by Laughter, and by Wit forlorn.
I mean not here by Wit, what's truly so,
But that false Coin which does for Current go.
'Tis certain but a few can Judgment make
Of such a gift, which but a few partake.
Ignorant Judges may decide a Cause,
Sooner against, than for Concealed Laws.
This is Wit's Pledge, but few those Precepts know,
Which many false Pretenders over-throw.
And yet amongst those very few, there are
Some who betray that Glorious Character;
}Whilst low-born Falshood goes for Heavenly Wit;
How many aim at what so few can hit?
The Trade of Hell was never hard to get.
Thus these Intruders double ends pursue,
Rooting out Wit, they root out Vertue too.
Soft pity passes now for Servile Fear,
A generous scorn of Life for mean despair.
Truth and Sincerity the Fools proclaim,
Which witty falshood always load with shame.
An Active Soul affected Notions prove,
Out-flying common Thoughts, or private Love.
Thus tho' each Vertue in it self they hate,
They love to make it add to a Deceit.
Undress'd 'tis scorn'd; but favour'd and allow'd,
When to the Neighbouring Vice it lends a Cloud.
}Thus the Inconstant Empress of the Night,
Tho' foul, and spotted, cloaths her self with Light,
And can with borrow'd Beams be always bright.