THROUGH a false medium things are shewn by day,
Pomp, wealth, and titles judgment lead astray.
How many from appearance borrow state
Whom NIGHT disdains to number with the Great!
Must not we laugh to see you  proud
Snuff up vile incense from a fawning croud?
Whilst in his beam surrounding clients play,
Like insects in the sun's enliv'ning ray,
Whilst, JEHU like, he drives at furious rate,
And seems the only charioteer of state,
Talking himself into a little God,
And ruling empires with a single nod,
Who would not think, to hear him law dispense,
That he had Int'rest, and that they had sense?
Injurious thought! beneath NIGHT's honest shade
When pomp is buried and false colours fade,
Plainly we see at that impartial hour
dupes to pride, and  the tool of pow'r.