The RELAPSE.
105
See, high in Air, the sportive Goddess hangs,
Unlocks her Casket, spreads her glitt'ring Ware,
And calls the giddy Winds to puff abroad
Her random Bounties o'er the gaping Throng.
All rush rapacious; Friends o'er trodden Friends;
Sons o'er their Fathers, Subjects o'er their ⟨Kings⟩,
Priests o'er their Gods, and Lovers o'er the Fair,
(Still more ador'd) to snatch the golden Show'r.
Gold glitters most, where Virtue shines no more;
As Stars from absent Suns have Leave to shine.
O what a precious Pack of Votaries
Unkennell'd from the Prisons, and the Stews,
Pour in, all op'ning in their Idol's Praise!
All, ardent, eye each Wafture of her Hand,
And, wide-expanding their voracious Jaws,
Morsel on Morsel swallow down unchew'd,
Untasted, thro' mad Appetite for more;
Gorg'd to the Throat, yet lean and rav'nous still.
Sagacious All, to trace the smallest Game,
And bold to seize the greatest. If (blest Chance!)
Court-Zephyrs sweetly breathe, they launch, they fly,
O'er Just, o'er Sacred, all forbidden Ground,
Drunk with the burning Scent of Place or Pow'r,
Staunch to the Foot of Lucre, till they die.
Or, if for Men you take them, as I mark
Their Manners, Thou their various Fates survey.
With Aim mis-measur'd, and impetuous Speed,
Some darting, strike their ardent Wish far off,
Thro' Fury to possess it: Some succeed,
But stumble, and let fall the taken Prize,
From some, by sudden Blasts, 'tis whirl'd away,
And lodg'd in Bosoms that ne'er dream'd of Gain.
To some it sticks so close, that, when torn off,
Torn is the Man, and mortal is the Wound.
Unlocks her Casket, spreads her glitt'ring Ware,
And calls the giddy Winds to puff abroad
Her random Bounties o'er the gaping Throng.
All rush rapacious; Friends o'er trodden Friends;
Sons o'er their Fathers, Subjects o'er their ⟨Kings⟩,
Priests o'er their Gods, and Lovers o'er the Fair,
(Still more ador'd) to snatch the golden Show'r.
Gold glitters most, where Virtue shines no more;
As Stars from absent Suns have Leave to shine.
O what a precious Pack of Votaries
Unkennell'd from the Prisons, and the Stews,
Pour in, all op'ning in their Idol's Praise!
All, ardent, eye each Wafture of her Hand,
And, wide-expanding their voracious Jaws,
Morsel on Morsel swallow down unchew'd,
Untasted, thro' mad Appetite for more;
Gorg'd to the Throat, yet lean and rav'nous still.
Sagacious All, to trace the smallest Game,
And bold to seize the greatest. If (blest Chance!)
Court-Zephyrs sweetly breathe, they launch, they fly,
O'er Just, o'er Sacred, all forbidden Ground,
Drunk with the burning Scent of Place or Pow'r,
Staunch to the Foot of Lucre, till they die.
Or, if for Men you take them, as I mark
Their Manners, Thou their various Fates survey.
With Aim mis-measur'd, and impetuous Speed,
Some darting, strike their ardent Wish far off,
Thro' Fury to possess it: Some succeed,
But stumble, and let fall the taken Prize,
From some, by sudden Blasts, 'tis whirl'd away,
And lodg'd in Bosoms that ne'er dream'd of Gain.
To some it sticks so close, that, when torn off,
Torn is the Man, and mortal is the Wound.
Some
