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And unknown regions dare descry; Still as they walk they look behind,
Lest fame a secret foe should find
From some malicious eye.
Loud mirth is theirs, and pleasing praise,
To beauty's Shrine address'd ;
Which charm the soften'd breast;
And ev'ry art coquets employ;
That fly th’approach of joy.
Alas! regardless of their doom,
The lovely victims rove ;
Can now their prudence move :
The ministers of female fate,
An artful, perjur'd, cruel train ;
Of false deceitful men !
Thefe thall the luft of gaming wear,
That harpy of the mind,
Qr pining love shall waste their youth,
That gnaws bright Hymen's golden chain,
And sorrow's pallid train.
Ambition this shall tempt to fix
Her hopes on something high,
Her peace and liberty.
That scowls on those it us'd to greet,
With never-resting feet.
And lo! where in the vale of years
A grilly tribe are seen ; Fancy's pale family of fears,
More hideous than their queen :
Struck with th' imaginary crew
Which artless nature never knew
These aid from quacks, and cordials beg, While this, transform’d by folly's hand,
Remains a-while at her command
A tea-pot, or an egg.
To each her suff’rings : all must grieve,
And pour a silent groan,
Or flights that meet their own :