Ah, faithless Traitor to the Gothick Pile, The long-embroidered Roof, the lessening Isle! No more to rouse, beneath th' impurpled Fane, That darkling gleams upon the frowning Fane! No longer to pursue thy pensive Way Where the lone Castle's Battlements decay! Ere Fashion [rivets?] her tyrranick Chain, To modern [Merit?] cease to pour the Strain: And quickly from the gay Delusion haste, Nor yield a [?] to Reynolds and to Taste!
