With straws, and filth, and time beset,
Where all is fish that comes to net,
That musty film, the Muse supposes
Figures the web of Virtuosos.
"You, where the gaudy insect sings,
Are cobwebs of the court of kings,
Where gilded threads conceal the gin.
And broider'd knaves are caught therein.
"That holly, fix'd 'mid mildew'd panes,
Of cheerless Christmas the remains