Soon dawn'd the day which was to shew
Glad FLORIO what was heaven below.
FLAVIA, admir'd wherever known,
Th' acknowledg'd Empress of bon-ton,
O'er FASHION'S wayward kingdom reigns,
And holds BELLARIO in her chains.
Various her powers; a wit by day,
By night unmatch'd for lucky play.
The flattering, fashionable tribe,
Each stray bon-mot to her ascribe;
And all her "little senate" own
She made the best charade in town;
Her midnight suppers always drew
Whate'er was fine, whate'er was new.
There oft the brightest fame you'd see
The victim of a repartee;
For Slander's Priestess still supplies
The spotless for the sacrifice.
Who at her polish'd table sit,
The summit reach of modish wit,
The  th' unfeeling jeer,
The civil, grave, ironic sneer;
The laugh, which, more than censure, wounds,
Which, more than argument, confounds.
Th' exalted deed, which wou'd engage
The wonder of a nobler age,
With unbelieving scorn is heard,
Or else to selfish ends referr'd;
To Vanity's light effervescence,
Ascribe they Virtue's purest essence.
When Malice longs to throw her dart,
But finds no vulnerable part,
Because the Virtues all defend,
At every pass, their guarded friend;
Yet, by one slight insinuation,
One scarce perceiv'd exaggeration,
Sly Ridicule, with half a word,
Can fix her stigma of — absurd;
Her cruel caustics deeply pain,
And scars indelible remain.