Tho' lost in the splendour of Fancy's wild dream, Whilst we smile at thy wit, we must censure its theme; No Satire should gleam in a Pindar's fair page, Which marks, with contempt, the weak foibles of age: Of Folly, of Vice, let the Satirist sing, But waste not one blot on the fame of thy King; At general guilt let thy thunders be hurl'd, But seek not contempt and disgust from the world; The shaft of reproof, when directed with skill, May bind lawless passion, and fetter the will: But, if falsehood or malice your genius could sway, Still Virtue must count you far nearer than they; Whilst thy dart, if it rankles in Guilt's blotted name Will twine round thy brow the first laurel of Fame. Monkwell-Street, July 13.
