The young and gay, who laugh and wink
At senseless drones who read and think;
Who all the fleeting hours count o'er,
And wish the four-and-twenty more;
Furnish'd with volumes in their head,
Above all fire, below all lead.
Be it your passion, joy, and fame,
To play at ev'ry modish game,
Fondly to flatter and caress;
A critick styl'd in point of dress;