HAS Nature's self been going backward, And human faults assuming, then? The very plants and beasts, I fancy, Now lie as much as mortal men. I trust not in the lily's chasteness; The colour'd fop, the butterfly, Toys with her, kisses, round her flutters, Till lost is all her purity. The violet's modesty moreover I hold full cheap. The little flower With the coquettish breezes trifles, In secret pants for fame and power. I doubt if Philomel appreciates The tune she sings with pompous mien; She overdoes it, sobs, and warbles Methinks from nought but pure routine. Truth from the earth is fast departing, The days of Faith are also o'er; The dogs still wag their tails, smell badly And yet are faithful now no more. |