Vain is the Pomp that loads theſe gaudy Fields,
It doleful Omens, but no Comfort, yields.
You Guineas are good natur'd eaſy Folks,
Your Princpile no Company provokes;
You have no Conſcience, tho' an humane ſhape,
Are ſingly dumb, but rattle in an Heap.
You come with Pleaſure, and Depart with Pain,
As Lovers meet, and take their Leave again:
You riſe and fall as Humours take the Great,
Too true an Emblem of a Courtier's Fate:
You court the Worthleſs, and neglect the Beſt,
As Fools are moſt by flatt'ring Knaves careſt.
They keep you beſt who leaſt can you employ,
As Eunuchs guard the Fair they can't enjoy.
When moſt ſecure, you frequently are ſtole,
As Accidents our purpos'd Joys controul.
Where'er you are our whole Attention lies,
As Sylvia is the Centre of all Eyes.
Of ev'ry Virtue you ſupply the Place,
Wit to the Mind, and Beauty to the Face.
