From silk to silk it drove its wayward Course, And on the diamond buckle spent its Force. Ah! gentle Fop! what luckless fate was thine To sin through fashion, and in woe to shine. But all our Numbers why should rascals claim[3]? Rise, honest Muse, and sing a nobler name. Pleas'd in his Eye good humour always smiles, And Mirth unbought with strife the hour beguiles, 140 Who smoothed the frown on yonder surly brow? From the dry Joke who bade gay Laughter flow? Not of affected, empty rapture full, Nor in proud Strain magnificently dull, But gay and easy, giving without Art Joy to each sense, and Solace to the heart. Thrice happy Damon, able to pursue What all so wish, but want the power to do. No cares thy Head, no crimes thy Heart torment, At home thou'rt happy, and abroad content; 150 Pleas'd with thyself, and therefore form'd to please, With Moderation free, and gay with Ease, Wise in a medium, just to an extreme, "The soul of Humour, and the life of Whim," Plac'd from thy Sphere, amid the sons of shame, Proud of thy Jest, but prouder of thy Name. Pernicious streams from healthy fountains rise, And Wit abus'd degenerates into vice; Timon, long practic'd in the School of art, Has lost each finer feeling of the Heart, 160 Triumphs o'er shame, and with delusive whiles, Laughs at the Idiot he himself beguiles. So matrons, past the awe of Censure's tongue, Deride the blushes of the fair and young. Few with more Fire on every subject spoke, But chief he lov'd the gay immoral joke; The Words most sacred, stole from holy writ, He gave a newer form, and call'd them Wit; Could twist a Sentence into various meaning, And save himself in dubious explaining; 170 Could use a manner long taught art affords, And hint Impiety in holy words. Vice never had a more sincere ally, So bold no Sinner, yet no Saint so sly; Sophist and Cynic, mystically cool, And still a very Sceptic at the soul; Learn'd but not wise, and without Virtue brave, A gay, deluding, philosophic Knave. When Bacchus' joys his airy fancy fire, They stir a new, but still a false desire; 180 The place of malice ridicule then holds, And woe to teachers, ministers and scolds; And, to the comfort of each untaught Fool, Horace in English vindicates the Bowl. "The man" (says Timon) "who is drunk is blest[4], No fears [disturb], no cares destroy his rest; In thoughtless joy he reels away his life, Nor dreads that worst of ills, a noisy wife. Of late I sat within the jangling bar, And heard my Rib's hoarse thunder from afar; 190 Careless I spoke, and, when she found me drunk, She breath'd one Curse, and then away she slunk, Oh! place me, Jove, where none but women come, And thunders worse than thine afflict the room;