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NIGHT the FIFTH.
THE
RELAPSE.
Humbly Inscribed
To the Right Honourable
The Earl of Litchfield.
Lorenzo! to recriminate is just.
Fondness for Fame is Avarice of Air.
I grant the Man is vain who writes for Praise.
Praise no Man e'er deserv'd, who sought no more.
As just thy Second Charge. I grant the Muse
Has often blusht at her degen'rate Sons,
Retain'd by Sense to plead her filthy Cause;
To raise the Low, to magnify the Mean,
And subtilize the Gross into Refin'd:
As if to magic Numbers pow'rful Charm
'Twas giv'n, to make a Civet of their Song
Obscene, and sweeten Ordure to Perfume.
Wit, a true Pagan, deifies the Brute,
And lifts our Swine-enjoyments from the Mire.
The Fact notorious, nor obscure the Cause.
We wear the Chains of Pleasure, and of Pride.
These share the Man; and these distract him too;
Draw diff'rent Ways, and clash in their Commands.
Fondness for Fame is Avarice of Air.
I grant the Man is vain who writes for Praise.
Praise no Man e'er deserv'd, who sought no more.
As just thy Second Charge. I grant the Muse
Has often blusht at her degen'rate Sons,
Retain'd by Sense to plead her filthy Cause;
To raise the Low, to magnify the Mean,
And subtilize the Gross into Refin'd:
As if to magic Numbers pow'rful Charm
'Twas giv'n, to make a Civet of their Song
Obscene, and sweeten Ordure to Perfume.
Wit, a true Pagan, deifies the Brute,
And lifts our Swine-enjoyments from the Mire.
The Fact notorious, nor obscure the Cause.
We wear the Chains of Pleasure, and of Pride.
These share the Man; and these distract him too;
Draw diff'rent Ways, and clash in their Commands.
Pride,
