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86
THE TRIUMPHS


'Tis true, attentive John's unfailing care
Began the rites of breakfast to prepare;
But yet no fires on the cold altar burn,
No smoke arises from the silver urn,
And the blank tea-board, where no viands lay,
Only supplied the paper of the day.
Tho' mild Serena's peace-devoted mind
The keen debate of politics declin'd,
And heard with cold contempt, or generous hate,
The frauds of party and the lies of state;
Nor car'd much more for fashion's loose intrigues,
Than factious bickerings or foreign leagues;
Yet, while she saunters idle and alone,
Her careless eyes are on the paper thrown.
As some gay youth, whom sportive friends engage
To view the furious ourang in his cage,
If while amus'd he sees the monster grin,
And trusts too careless to the bolts within,
If the sly beast, as near the grate he draws,
Tear him unguarded with projected paws,