Or when rough winter rages, on the soft And fhelter'd Sofa, while the nitrous air Feeds a blue flame, and makes a chearful hearth How great the danger of difturbing her, Domestic happiness, thou only bliss Of Paradife that has furviv'd the fall! Or too incautious to preferve thy fweets Unmixt with drops of bitter, which neglect 2 Thou art the nurse of virtue. In thine arms She fmiles, appearing, as in truth fhe is, ; Heav'n Heav'n-born, and deftin'd to the skies again. Thou art not known where pleasure is ador'd, That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist And wand'ring eyes, ftill leaning on the arm Of novelty, her fickle frail fupport; For thou art meek and constant, hating change, And finding in the calm of truth-tried love Joys that her stormy raptures never yield. Forfaking thee, what fhipwreck have we made Of honor, dignity, and fair renown; Till prostitution elbows us afide In all our crowded streets, and fenates feem Than to release th' adultress from her bond. In guilty fplendor, shake the public ways; The frequency of crimes has wash'd them white. By all that priz'd it; not for prud’ry's fake, 'Twas hard perhaps on here and there a waif, But was an wholesome rigor in the main, And taught th' unblemish'd to preserve with care That purity, whofe lofs was lofs of all. Men too were nice in honor in those days, And judg'd offenders well. And he that sharp'd, And pocketted a prize by fraud obtain'd, Was mark'd and fhunn'd as odious. He that fold His country, or was flack when the requir'd His ev'ry nerve in action and at stretch, Paid with the blood that he had bafely fpar'd To país us readily through ev'ry door. (And no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet) The worth of what fhe mimics with fuch care, But fhe has burnt her mask, not needed here, I was a ftricken deer that left the herd Long fince; with many an arrow deep infixt, My My panting fide was charg'd, when I withdrew Been hurt by th' archers. In his fide he bore, With gentle force foliciting the darts, He drew them forth, and heal'd and bade me live. And filent woods I wander, far from thofe And still they dream that they shall still fucceed, VOL. II. H With |