Ere from the flaming temple ye retreat:
And ye who met, on revel idlesse bent,
May find, in pleasure's fane, your grave and monument.

VI.

Your debts mount high--ye plunge in deeper waste;
The tradesman duns--no warning voice ye hear;
The plaintiff sues--to public shows ye haste;
The bailiff threats--ye feel no idle fear.
Who can arrest your prodigal career?
Who can keep down the levity of youth?
What sound can startle age's stubborn ear?
Who can redeem from wretchedness and ruth
Men true to falsehood's voice, false to the voice of truth?

VII.

To thee, blest saint! who doffed thy skin to make
The Smithfield rabble leap from theirs with joy,
We dedicate the pile--arise! awake! -
Knock down the Muses, wit and sense destroy
Clear our new stage from reason's dull alloy,
Charm hobbling age, and tickle capering youth
With cleaver, marrow-bone, and Tunbridge toy!
While, vibrating in unbelieving tooth, {23}
Harps twang in Drury's walls, and make her boards a booth.

VIII.