* * * * *

Few to good-breeding make a just pretense;
Good-breeding is the blossom of good-sense;
The last result of an accomplished mind,
With outward grace, the body’s virtue, joined. 
A violated decency now reigns;
And nymphs for failings take peculiar pains. 
With Chinese painters modern toasts agree,
The point they aim at is deformity: 
They throw their persons with a hoyden air
Across the room, and toss into the chair. 
So far their commerce with mankind is gone,
They, for our manners, have exchanged their own.

The modest look, the castigated grace,
The gentle movement, and slow-measured pace,
For which her lovers died, her parents prayed,
Are indecorums with the modern maid.

* * * * *

What swarms of amorous grandmothers I see! 
And misses, ancient in iniquity! 
What blasting whispers, and what loud declaiming! 
What lying, drinking, bawding, swearing, gaming! 
Friendship so cold, such warm incontinence;
Such griping avarice, such profuse expense;
Such dead devotion, such a zeal for crimes;
Such licensed ill, such masquerading times;
Such venal faith, such misapplied applause;
Such flattered guilt, and such inverted laws!

  Such dissolution through the whole I find,
  ’Tis not a world, but chaos of mankind. 
  Since Sundays have no balls, the well-dressed belle
  Shines in the pew, but smiles to hear of Hell;
  And casts an eye of sweet disdain on all
  Who listen less to Collins than St. Paul. 
  Atheists have been but rare; since Nature’s birth
  Till now, she-atheists ne’er appeared on earth. 
  Ye men of deep researches, say, whence springs
  This daring character, in timorous things? 
  Who start at feathers, from an insect fly,
  A match for nothing—­but the Deity. 
  But, not to wrong the fair, the Muse must own
  In this pursuit they court not fame alone;
  But join to that a more substantial view,
  ‘From thinking free, to be free agents, too.’

  They strive with their own hearts, and keep them down,
  In complaisance to all the fools in town. 
  O how they tremble at the name of prude! 
  And die with shame at thought of being good! 
  For, what will Artimis, the rich and gay,
  What will the wits, that is, the coxcombs, say? 
  They Heaven defy, to earth’s vile dregs a slave;
  Through cowardice, most execrably brave. 
  With our own judgments durst we to comply,
  In virtue should we live, in glory die.

  Rise then, my Muse, In honest fury rise;
  They dread a satire who defy the skies.