Taints all the family of flowers, condemn’d 440
To cruel heav’ns. But why, already prone
To fade, should beauty cherish its own bane?
O shame! O pity! nipt with pale Quadrille,
And midnight cares, the bloom of Albion dies!
By toil subdu’d, the Warrior and the Hind 445
Sleep fast and deep; their active functions soon
With generous streams the subtle tubes supply,
And soon the tonick irritable nerves
Feel the fresh impulse, and awake the soul.