For nothing here can constant be,
Where springing Joys the old efface.
The Theatre, of Yore the Field
Of Conquests, gain’d by blooming Maids,
Now must to modern Operas yield,
As they, to courtly Masquerades.
Nor better fares those sweet Retreats
Which they in sultry Summer chose:
Since Scarb’rough, Paradise of Sweets!
On ruined Bath and Tunbridge rose.