When Malice longs to throw her dart,
But finds no vulnerable part,
Because the Virtues all defend,
At every pass, their guarded friend;
Then, by one slight insinuation,
One scarce-perceived exaggeration,
Sly Ridicule, with half a word,
Can fix her stigma of—absurd;
Nor care nor skill extracts the dart
With which she stabs the feeling heart;
Her cruel caustics inly pain,

And scars indelible remain.

Supreme in wit, supreme in play,
Despotic Flavia all obey;

Small were her natural charms of face,
Till heightened with each foreign grace;
But what subdued Bellario's soul
Beyond philosophy's control,

Her constant table was as fine
As if ten rajahs were to dine;
She every day produced such fish, as
Would gratify the nice Apicius,
Or realize what we think fabulous,
I' th' bill of fare of Heliogabalus.

Yet still the natural taste was cheated,

'Twas deluged in some sauce one hated.

'Twas sauce! 'twas sweatmeat! 'twas confection i

All poignancy! and all perfection!

Rich entremets, whose name none knows,
Ragouts, tourtes, tendrons, fricandeaux,
Might pique the sensuality

O' th' hogs of Epicurus' sty;
Yet all so foreign, and so fine,
'Twas easier to admire than dine.

O! if the muse had power to tell
Each dish, no muse has power to spell!
Great goddess of the French cuisine!
Not with unhallowed hands I mean
To violate thy secret shade,

Which eyes profane shall ne'er invade;
No! of thy dignity supreme,

I, with "mysterious reverence," deem!
Or should I venture with rash hand,
The vulgar would not understand;

None but th' initiated know
The raptures keen thy rites bestow.
Thus much to tell I lawful deem,
Thy works are never what they seem;
Thy will this general law has passed,
That nothing of itself shall taste.
Thy word this high decree enacted,
"In all be nature counteracted!"
Conceive, who can, the perfect bliss,
For 'tis not given to all to guess,
The rapturous joy Bellario found,
When thus his every wish was crowned.
To Florio, as the best of friends,
One dish he secretly commends;
Then hinted, as a special favor,
What gave it that delicious flavor;
A mystery he so much reveres,
He never to unhallowed ears

Would trust it, but to him would show
How far true friendship's power could go.
Florio, though dazzled by the féte,
With far inferior transport eat;
A little warp his taste had gained,
Which, unperceived, till now, remained;
For from himself he would conceal
The change he did not choose to feel;
He almost wished he could be picking
An unsophisticated chicken;

And when he cast his eyes around,
And not one simple morsel found,
"O give me," was his secret wish,
"My charming Celia's plainest dish!"
Thus Nature, struggling for her rights,
Lets in some little, casual lights;
And love combines to war with fashion,
Though yet 'twas but an infant passion.

The practised Flavia tried each art
Of sly attack to steal his heart;
Her forced civilities oppress,
Fatiguing through mere graciousness;
While many a gay, intrepid dame,
By bold assault essayed the same.
Filled with disgust, he strove to fly
The artful glance and fearless eye;

Their jargon now no more he praises,
Nor echoes back their flimsy phrases.
He felt not Celia's powers of face,
Till weighed against bon-ton grimace;
Nor half her genuine beauties tasted,
Till with factitious charms contrasted.
Th' industrious harpies hovered round,
Nor peace nor liberty he found;
By force and flattery circumvented,
To play, reluctant, he consented;
Each dame her power of pleasing tried,
To fix the novice by her side;
Of pigeons, he the very best,

Who wealth, with ignorance, possessed:
But Flavia's rhetoric best persuades,
That sibyl leads him to the shades;
The fatal leaves around the room,
Prophetic, tell th' approaching doom!
Yet, different from the tale of old,
It was the fair one plucked the gold;
Her arts the ponderous purse exhausts;
A thousand borrowed, staked, and lost,
Wakes him to sense and shame again,
Nor force nor fraud could more obtain.
He rose, indignant, to attend
The summons of a ruined friend,
Whom keen Bellario's arts betray
To all the depths of desperate play;
A thoughtless youth, who near him sat
Was plundered of his whole estate;
Too late he called for Florio's aid,
A beggar in a moment made.

And now, with horror, Florio views
The wild confusion which ensues;
Marks how th' dames, of late so fair,
Assume a fierce, demoniac air;
Marks where the infernal furies hold
Their orgies foul o'er heaps of gold;
And spirits dire appear to rise,
Guarding the horrid mysteries;
Marks how deforming passions tear
The bosoms of the losing fair;

How looks convulsed, and haggard faces,

Chase the scared loves and frightened graces.

Touched with disdain, with horror fired,
"Celia!" he mumured, and retired.

That night no sleep his eyelids pressed;
He thought; and thought's a foe to rest:
Or if, by chance, he closed his eyes,
What hideous spectres round him rise!
Distempered fancy wildly brings
The broken images of things;

His ruined friend, with eye-ball fixed,
Swallowing the draught despair had mixed;
The frantic wife beside him stands,
With bursting heart and wringing hands;
And every horror dreams bestow,
Of pining want, or raving wo.

Next morn, to check or cherish thought,
His library's retreat he sought;
He viewed each book with cold regard,
Of serious sage or lighter bard;
At length, among the motley band,
The "Idler" fell into his hand;
Th' alluring title caught his eye,
It promised cold inanity;

He read with rapture and surprise,

And found 'twas pleasant, though 'twas wise;

His tea grew cold, whilst he, unheeding,

Pursued this reasonable reading.

He wondered at the change he found;
Th' elastic spirits nimbly bound;
Time slipped, without disgust, away,
While many a card unanswered lay.
Three papers, reeking from the press,
Three pamphlets thin, in azure dress,
Ephemeral literature well known,
The lie and scandal of the town;
Poison of letters, morals, time!
Assassin of our day's fresh prime !
These, on his table, half the day,
Unthought of, and neglected, lay.

Florio had now full three hours read,
Hours which he used to waste in bed;
His pulse beat virtue's vigorous tone,
The reason to himself unknown ;
And if he stopped to seek the cause,
Fair Celia's image filled the pause.

And now, announced, Bellario's name
Had almost quenched the new-born flam
"Admit him," was the ready word
Which first escaped him, not unheard;
When sudden, to his mental sight,
Uprose the horrors of last night;

His plundered friend before him stands,
And "Not at home," his firm command
He felt the conquest as a joy

The first temptation would destroy.
He knew next day that Hymen's hand
Would tack the slight and slippery band,
Which, in loose bondage, would ensnare
Bellario bright and Flavia fair.
Oft had he promised to attend
The nuptials of his happy friend;
To go-to stay-alike he fears;
At length a bolder flight he dares;
To Celia he resolves to fly,

And catch fresh virtue from her eye;
Though three full weeks did yet remain,
Ere he engaged to come again.
This plan he tremblingly embraced,
With doubtful zeal, and fluttering haste;
Nor ventured he one card to read,

Which might his virtuous scheme impede;
Each note he dreaded might betray him,
And shuddered lest each rap should stay him.
Behold him seated in his chaise;

With face that self-distrust betrays;

He hazards not a single glance,

Nor through the glasses peeps by chance, Lest some old friend, or haunt well known, Should melt his resolution down.

Fast as his foaming coursers fly,

Hyde Park attracts his half-raised eye:
He steals one fearful, conscious look,
Then drops his eye upon his book.
Triumphant he persists to go;
But gives one sigh to Rotten-row.
Long as he viewed Augusta's towers,
The sight relaxed his thinking powers;
In vain he better plans revolves,
While the soft scene his soul dissolves;