Servitude that hugs her chain,
Nor in these consecrated bow’rs
Let painted Flatt’ry hide her serpent train in flow’rs.
Chorus.
Nor Envy pale, nor creeping Gain,
Dare the Muse’s walk to stain,
While bright-ey’d Science walks around;
Hence! avaunt! ’tis holy ground.
* * * * *
Two long parodies of this ode may be found in Volume IV. of The New Foundling Hospital for Wit, London, 1786, both treat of the political questions of the day, and refer to persons long since forgotten, so that it is unnecessary to quote more than a verse or two from each:—