When Dryden’s fool, ‘unknowing what he sought,’
His hours in whistling spent, ‘for want of thought,’
This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense
Supplied, and amply too, by innocence
Did modern swains, possess’d of Cymon’s powers,
In Cymon’s manner waste their leisure hours,
Th’ offended guests would not, with blushing, see
These fair green walks disgraced by infamy.
Severe the fate of modern fools, alas!
When vice and folly mark them as they pass.
Like noxious reptiles o’er the whiten’d wall,
The filth they leave still points out where they crawl.