Lest fame a secret foe should find
From some malicious eye.
Loud mirth is theirs, and pleasing praise,
To beauty’s shrine address’d:
The sprightly songs, the melting lays,
Which charm the soften’d breast!
Theirs lively wit, invention free,
The sharp bon mot, keen repartee,
And ev’ry art coquets employ!
The thoughtless day, the jocund night,