Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 18.djvu/428

414 For when like stupid alchymists you try To fix this nimble god, This volatile mercury, The subtil spirit all flies up in fume; Nor shall the bubbled virtuoso find More than a fade insipid mixture left behind. While thus I write, vast shoals of criticks come, And on my verse pronounce their saucy doom; The Muse, like some bright country virgin, shows, Fall'n by mishap among a knot of beaux; They, in their lewd and fashionable prate, Rally her dress, her language, and her gait; Spend their base coin before the bashful maid, Current like copper, and as often paid: She, who on shady banks has joy'd to sleep Near better animals, her father's sheep; Shamed and amazed, beholds the chatt'ring throng, To think what cattle she has got among; But with the odious smell and sight annoy'd, In haste she does th' offensive herd avoid. 'Tis time to bid my friend a long farewell, The Muse retreats far in yon crystal cell; Faint inspiration sickens as she flies, Like distant echo spent, the spirit dies. In this descending sheet you'll haply find Some short refreshment for your weary mind, Nought it contains is common or unclean, And once drawn up, is ne'er let down again. OCCASIONED