Her form still new, still unimpair’d appears;
Thou court’st the error that obscures thy mind,
And think’st thou’rt happy, when thou art but blind.
What strange excess of folly could delight,
When a base triumph dignified thy flight?
A Roman chief assuming Bacchus’ name,
Thro’ Alexandria, publishes his shame;
In these low arts can I that hero view,
Who once in Rome far different triumphs knew.
Ah! fruitless pains, requited with disdain,