The Babylonian tyrant with a nod

Had summon'd them to serve his golden god.

130

So well that thought th' employment seems to suit, Psalt'ry and sackbut, dulcimer and flute.

O fie! 'tis evangelical and pure:

Observe each face, how sober and demure!
Ecstasy sets her stamp on ev'ry mien;

Chins fall'n, and not an eyeball to be seen.
Still I insist, though music heretofore

Has charm'd me much, (not ev'n Occiduus more)
Love, joy, and peace make harmony more meet
For sabbath ev'nings, and perhaps as sweet.

Will not the sickliest sheep of ev'ry flock
Resort to this example as a rock;
There stand, and justify the foul abuse
Of sabbath hours with plausible excuse;

If apostolic gravity be free,

To play the fool on Sundays, why not we?
If he the tinkling harpsichord regards

As inoffensive, what offence in cards?

141

Strike up the fiddles, let us all be gay,

Laymen have leave to dance, if parsons play.

Oh Italy!-thy sabbaths will be soon

150

Our sabbaths, clos'd with mumm'ry and buffoon. Preaching and pranks will share the motley scene, Ours parcell'd out, as thine have ever been, God's worship and the mountebank between. What says the prophet? Let that day be blest With holiness and consecrated rest.

Pastime and business both it should exclude,

And bar the door the moment they intrude;
Nobly distinguish'd above all the six

By deeds in which the World must never mix.
Hear him again. He calls it a delight,

A day of luxury, observ'd aright,

160

When the glad soul is made Heav'n's welcome

guest,

Sits banquetting, and God provides the feast.
But triflers are engag'd, and cannot come,

Their answer to the call is--Not at home.

O the dear pleasures of the velvet plain,

The painted tablets, dealt and dealt again!
Cards, with what rapture, and the polish'd die,
The yawning chasm of indolence supply!

Then to the dance, and make the sober moon
Witness of joys, that shun the sight of noon.

Blame, cynic, if you can, quadrille or ball,
The snug close
close party, or the splendid hall,

170

Where Night, down-stooping from her ebon throne, Views constellations brighter than her own.

'Tis innocent, and harmless, and refin'd,

The balm of care, Elysium of the mind.

180

Innocent! Oh if venerable Time

Slain at the foot of Pleasure be no crime,

Then, with his silver beard and magic wand,
Let Comus rise archbishop of the land;
Let him your rubric and your feasts prescribe,
Grand metropolitan of all the tribe.

Of manners rough, and coarse athletic cast,

The rank debauch suits Clodio's filthy taste.

Rufillus, exquisitely form'd by rule,

Not of the moral, but the dancing school,
Wonders at Clodio's follies, in a tone

As tragical, as others at his own.

He cannot drink five bottles, bilk the score,
Then kill a constable, and drink five more;

But he can draw a pattern, make a tart,
And has the ladies etiquette by heart.

Go, fool; and, arm in arm with Clodio, plead
Your cause before a bar you little dread;

But know, the law, that bids the drunkard die,

Is far too just, to pass the trifler by.

Both baby-featur'd, and of infant size,

View'd from a distance, and with heedless eyes, Folly and Innocence are so alike,

The diff'rence, though essential, fails to strike.

Yet folly ever has a vacant stare,

A simp'ring count'nance, and a trifling air;
But Innocence, sedate, serene, erect,

Delights us, by engaging our respect.

190

200

Man, Nature's guest by invitation sweet,
Receives from her both appetite and treat;
But, if he play the glutton, and exceed,
His benefactress blushes at the deed;

210

For Nature, nice, as lib'ral to dispense,
Made nothing but a brute the slave of sense.
Daniel ate pulse by choice-example rare!
Heav'n bless'd the youth, and made him fresh
and fair.

Gorgonius sits, abdominous and wan,
Like a fat squab upon a Chinese fan:
He snuffs far off th' anticipated joy;
Turtle and ven❜son all his thoughts employ;
Prepares for meals as jockies take a sweat,
Oh, nauseous!-an emetic for a whet!
Will Providence o'erlook the wasted good?
Temperance were no virtue if he could.

220

That pleasures, therefore, or what such we

call,

Are hurtful, is a truth confess'd by all.