Blame not my rustic lay, nor think me rude,
If I avow Conceit's the grand prelude
To dire disease and death. Your high-born maid,
Whom fashion guides, in youth's first bloom shall fade;
She seeks the cause, th'effect would fain elude,
By Death's o'erstretching stride too close pursu'd,
She faints within his icy grasp, yet stares,
And wonders why the Tyrant yet appears —
Abrupt — so soon — Thine, Fashion, is the crime,
Fell Dissipation does the work of time.