To William Hall, Esquire: With The Works Of Chaulieu

Attend to Chaulieu's wanton lyre; While, fluent as the sky-lark sings When first the morn allures it's wings, The epicure his theme pursues: And tell me if, among the choir Whose music charms the banks of Seine, So full, so free, so rich a strain E'er dictated the warbling Muse. Yet, Hall, while thy judicious ear Admires the well-dissembled art That can such harmony impart To the lame pace of Gallic rhymes; While wit from affectation clear, Bright images, and passions true, Recall to thy assenting view The envied bards of nobler times; Say, is not oft his doctrine wrong? This priest of pleasure, who aspires To lead us to her sacred fires, Knows he the ritual of her shrine? Say (her sweet influence to thy song So may the goddess still afford) Doth she consent to be ador'd With shameless love and frantic wine? Nor Cato, nor Chrysippus here Need we in high indignant phrase From their Elysian quiet raise; But pleasure's oracle alone Consult; attentive, not severe. O pleasure, we blaspheme not thee; Nor emulate the rigid knee Which bends but at the Stoic throne. We own had fate to man assign'd Nor sense, nor wish but what obey Or Venus soft or Bacchus gay, Then might our bard's voluptuous creed Most aptly govern human kind: Unless perchance what he hath sung Of tortur'd joints and nerves unstrung, Some wrangling heretic should plead. But now with all these proud desires For dauntless truth and and honest fame; With that strong master of our frame, The inexorable judge within, What can be done? Alas, ye fires Of love; alas, ye rosy smiles, Ye nectar'd cups from happier soils, Ye have no bribe his grace to win.