The sprightly dance, the magic song,
Shall then the festive night prolong;
The tragic muse shall lend her aid,
In Johnson’s matchless charms array’d;
Or Melmoth rouse the tender tear,
Now melt in woe—now start with fear;
While every sportive Thalian grace,
In either Hodgkinson we trace.
Enticing cards shall next invite
To scenes of ever new delight,