STROPHE.

In Fortune's car behold that minion ride, With either India's glittering spoils oppress'd; So moves the sumpter-mule in harness'd pride, That bears the treasure which he cannot taste. For him let venal bards disgrace the bay, And hireling minstrels wake the tinkling string; Her sensual snares let faithless Pleasure lay; And jingling bells fantastic Folly ring; 100 Disquiet, doubt, and dread shall intervene, And Nature, still to all her feelings just, In vengeance hang a damp on every scene, Shook from the baneful pinions of Disgust.