That pilot Reason, in the erring Soul,
Is lost, is blinded in the steaming Bowl,
Charm'd by its power, we cast our guide away,
And at the mercy of conjecture lay;
Discretion dies with reason, Revel wakes!
20
And o'er the head his fiery banners shakes.
With him come frenzy, folly and excess,
Blink-ey'd conceit and shallow emptiness;
At Folly's beck a train of Vices glide,