Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/58

48 This bloated harpy, sprung from Hell, Confin'd thee, goddess, to a cell: Sprung from her womb that impious line, Contemners of thy rites divine. First, lolling Sloth in woollen cap Taking her after-dinner nap: Pale Dropsy with a sallow face, Her belly burst, and slow her pace: And lordly Gout, wrapt up in fur: And wheezing Asthma, loth to stir: Voluptuous Ease, the child of wealth, Infecting thus our hearts by stealth. None seek thee now in open air, To thee no verdant altars rear; But, in their cells and vaults obscene Present a sacrifice unclean; From whence unsavoury vapours rose, Offensive to thy nicer nose. Ah! who, in our degenerate days, As nature prompts, his offering pays? Here nature never difference made Between the sceptre and the spade. Ye great ones, why will ye disdain To pay your tribute on the plain? Why will you place in lazy pride Your altars near your couches side; When from the homeliest earthen ware Are sent up offerings more sincere, Than where the haughty duchess locks Her silver vase in cedar box? Yet some devotion still remains Among our harmless northern swains, Whose offerings, plac'd in golden ranks, Adorn our crystal rivers' banks; Nor