IV.
O Gracious God! How far have we Prophan'd thy Heav'nly Gift of Poesy? Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, Debas'd to each obscene and impious use, Whose Harmony was first ordain'd Above For Tongues of Angels, and for Hymns of Love? O wretched We! why were we hurry'd down This lubrique and adult'rate age, (Nay added fat Pollutions of our own) T'increase the steaming Ordures of the Stage? What can we say t'excuse our Second Fall? Let this thy Vestal, Heav'n, attone for all! Her Arethusian Stream remains unsoil'd, Unmixt with Forreign Filth, and undefil'd, Her Wit was more than Man, her Innocence a Child!