Whom none can blame, will help, or dare upbraid.
“Call this our need, a bog that all devours, -
Then what thy petty arts, but summer-flowers,
Gaudy and mean, and serving to betray
The place they make unprofitably gay?
Who know it not, some useless beauties see, -
But ah! to prove it was reserved for me.”
Unhappy state! that, in decay of love,
Permits harsh truth his errors to disprove;
While he remains, to wrangle and to jar,