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And then, where are we ? where, LORENZO, then
Thy sports—thy pomps ?—I grant thee, in a state
Not unambitious; in the ruffled shroud,
Thy parian tomb's triumphant arch beneath :
Has death his fopperies ? then well may life
Put on her plume, and in her rainbow shine.

Ye 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 LORENZOS 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 patience 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 ?

* O treacherous conscience! while she seems to sleep
On rose and myrtle, lull'd with syren song;