Hurling thy random bolts, offended Truth Assign'd thee here thy station with the slaves Of Folly. Thy once formidable name Shall grace her humble records, and be heard In scoffs and mockery bandied from the lips Of all the vengeful brotherhood around, So oft the patient victims of thy scorn. 190 But now, ye gay! [Endnote CC] to whom indulgent fate, Of all the Muse's empire hath assign'd The fields of folly, hither each advance Your sickles; here the teeming soil affords Its richest growth. A favourite brood appears, In whom the demon, with a mother's joy, Views all her charms reflected, all her cares At full repaid. Ye most illustrious band! Who, scorning Reason's tame, pedantic rules, And Order's vulgar bondage, never meant 200 For souls sublime as yours, with generous zeal Pay Vice the reverence Virtue long usurp'd, And yield Deformity the fond applause Which Beauty wont to claim, forgive my song, That for the blushing diffidence of youth, It shuns the unequal province of your praise. Thus far triumphant [Endnote DD] in the pleasing guile Of bland Imagination, Folly's train Have dared our search: but now a dastard kind Advance reluctant, and with faltering feet 210 Shrink from the gazer's eye: enfeebled hearts Whom Fancy chills with visionary fears, Or bends to servile tameness with conceits Of shame, of evil, or of base defect, Fantastic and delusive. Here the slave Who droops abash'd when sullen Pomp surveys His humbler habit; here the trembling wretch Unnerved and struck with Terror's icy bolts, Spent in weak wailings, drown'd in shameful tears, At every dream of danger: here, subdued 220 By frontless laughter and the hardy scorn Of old, unfeeling vice, the abject soul, Who, blushing, half resigns the candid praise Of Temperance and Honour; half disowns A freeman's hatred of tyrannic pride; And hears with sickly smiles the venal mouth With foulest licence mock the patriot's name. Last of the motley bands [Endnote EE] on whom the power Of gay Derision bends her hostile aim, Is that where shameful Ignorance presides. 230 Beneath her sordid banners, lo! they march Like blind and lame. Whate'er their doubtful hands Attempt, Confusion straight appears behind, And troubles all the work. Through many a maze, Perplex'd they struggle, changing every path, O'erturning every purpose; then at last Sit down dismay'd, and leave the entangled scene For Scorn to sport with. Such then is the abode Of Folly in the mind; and such the shapes In which she governs her obsequious train. 240