Attend to Chaulieu's wanton lyre; While, fluent as the skylark sings When first the morn allures its wings, The epicure his theme pursues:
And tell me if, among the choir Whose music charms the banks of Seine, So full, so free, so rich a strain E'er dictated the warbling Muse.
Yet, Hall, while thy judicious ear Admires the well-dissembled art That can such harmony impart To the lame pace of Gallic rhymes;
While wit from affectation clear, Bright images, and passions true, Recall to thy assenting view The envied bards of nobler times;
Say, is not oft his doctrine wrong? This priest of Pleasure, who aspires To lead us to her sacred fires, Knows he the ritual of her shrine?
Say ( her sweet influence to thy song So may the goddess still afford ), Doth she consent to be adored With shameless love and frantic wine?
Nor Cato, nor Chrysippus here Need we in high indignant phrase From their Elysian quiet raise: But Pleasure's oracle alone
Consult; attentive, not severe. O Pleasure, we blaspheme not thee; Nor emulate the rigid knee Which bends but at the Stoic throne.
We own, had fate to man assign'd Nor sense, nor wish but what obey, Or Venus soft, or Bacchus gay, Then might our bard's voluptuous creed
Most aptly govern human kind: Unless perchance what he hath sung Of tortured joints and nerves unstrung, Some wrangling heretic should plead.
But now, with all these proud desires For dauntless truth and honest fame; With that strong master of our frame, The inexorable judge within,
What can be done? Alas, ye fires Of love; alas, ye rosy smiles, Ye nectar'd cups from happier soils,— Ye have no bribe his grace to win.
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