well-array'd! ye lilies of our land!
Ye lilies male, who neither toil, nor spin,
(As sister lilies might,) if not so wise
As Solomon, more sumptuous to the sight!
Ye delicate! who nothing can support,
Yourselves most insupportable! for whom
The winter rose must blow, the Sun put on
A brighter beam in Leo; silky-soft
Favonius breathe still softer, or be chid;
And other worlds send odours, sauce, and song,
And robes, and notions, framed in foreign looms!
O ye  of our age! who deem
One moment unamused a misery
Not made for feeble man; who call aloud
For every bauble drivell'd o'er by sense;
For rattles, and conceits of every cast,
For change of follies, and relays of joy,
To drag your patient through the tedious length
Of a short winter's day; — say, sages; say,
Wit's oracles; say, dreamers of gay dreams!
How will you weather an eternal night,
Where such expedients fail?