28 The revel now proceeds apace, Deftly they frisk it o'er the place, They sit, they drink, and eat; The time with frolic mirth beguile, And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while, Till all the rout retreat.
29 By this the stars began to wink, They shriek, they fly, the tapers sink, And down ydrops the knight. For never spell by Faerie laid With strong enchantment bound a glade Beyond the length of night.
30 Chill, dark, alone, adreed he lay, Till up the welkin rose the day, Then deem'd the dole was o'er; But wot ye well his harder lot? His seely back the bunch has got Which Edwin lost afore.
31 This tale a Sybil-nurse aread; She softly stroked my youngling head, And when the tale was done, Thus some are born, my son, (she cries,) With base impediments to rise, And some are born with none.
32 But virtue can itself advaunce To what the favourite fools of chaunce By fortune seem'd design'd; Virtue can gain the odds of Fate, And from itself shake off the weight Upon the unworthy mind.
To praise, yet still with due respect to praise, A bard triumphant in immortal bays, The learn'd to show, the sensible commend, Yet still preserve the province of the friend, What life, what vigour, must the lines require, What music tune them, what affection fire!
Oh! might thy genius in my bosom shine, Thou shouldst not fail of numbers worthy thine; The brightest ancients might at once agree To sing within my lays, and sing of thee. 10
Horace himself would own thou dost excel In candid arts, to play the critic well.
Ovid himself might wish to sing the dame Whom Windsor Forest sees a gliding stream; On silver feet, with annual osier crown'd, She runs for ever through poetic ground.
How flame the glories of Belinda's hair, Made by thy Muse the envy of the fair! Less shone the tresses Egypt's princess[1] wore, Which sweet Callimachus so sung before; 20 Here courtly trifles set the world at odds, Belles war with beaux, and whims descend for gods, The new machines in names of ridicule, Mock the grave frenzy of the chymic fool. But know, ye fair, a point conceal'd with art, The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a woman's heart: The Graces stand in sight; a Satyr train Peep o'er their heads, and laugh behind the scene.