The giddy flutt’ring sons of dance and song.
Thou to the libertine dost ever prove
An airy phantom; mock’st his eager grasp;
Leaves him to cruel disappointment’s rage,
Remorse, despair, the inmates of his soul.
In hopes to meet thee in some distant clime,
The ardent warrior quits his native shore,
Inur’d to martial toil; at danger smiles,
And unconcern’d treads o’er the heaps of slain:
His en’mies fly before him; at his feet