Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 18.djvu/444

430 Not frighted with an ignominious name, For your displeasure is their only shame. A pox on Elrington's majestick tone! Now to a word of business in our own. Gallants, next Thursday night will be our last; Then without fail we pack up for Belfast. Lose not your time, nor our diversions miss, The next we act shall be as good as this.

HE Muses, whom the richest silks array, Refuse to fling their shining gowns away; The pencil clothes the nine in bright brocades, And gives each colour to the pictured maids; Far above mortal dress the sisters shine, Pride in their Indian robes, and must be fine. And shall two bards in consort rhyme and huff, And fret these Muses with their playhouse stuff? The player in mimick piety may storm, Deplore the comb, and bid her heroes arm: The arbitrary mob, in paltry rage, May curse the belles and chintses of the age: Yet still the artist worm her silk shall share, And spin her thread of life in service of the fair. The