Nor the Black Dandy[9] hear with scornful smile,
The early hours of that unpolish’d brood.
The pomp of liv’ries and the whirl of wheels,
And all that Hoby,[10] all that Dyde[11] e’er gave,
Are random toys that Fortune blindly deals,—
Grave to the fool, but foolish to the grave.
Nor you, ye fair, contemn their lowly doom,
If fops for them no rapt’rous plaudits raise;
While in the buzz of many a scented room,