Thus far, O  thou mayst ask of Heav'n,
How bless'd the Mortal to whom these are giv'n:
If such thy Lot, let Kings enjoy their Crowns,
Their pageant State and arbitrary Frowns:
Who, tho' encircl'd by their shining Slaves,
Intriguing Friends and well dissembl'd Knaves,
Are only wretched Idols plac'd on high,
To bear the Rage of a tempestuous Sky:
And while the Storms around his Temples blow,
His fawning Servants safely sneer below:
But now the Sun brings on the Noon of Day,
Rise,  rise and shun the scorching Ray:
This said, no more appear'd the beauteous Maid,
And  waking found a lonely Shade.