“On others Int'rest her gay liv'ry flings, Int'rest, that waves on party-colour'd wings: Turn'd to the sun, she casts a thousand dyes, And, as she turns, the colours fall or rise. Others the Syren Sisters warble round, And empty heads console with empty sound.
No more, alas! the voice of Fame they hear,
The balm of Dulness trickling in their ear. Great C**, H**, P**, R**, K*, Why all your toils? your sons have learn'd to sing.
How quick Ambition hastes to Ridicule:”