To Eugenia.

To Eugenia.

MEthinks I see the Golden Age agen, Drawn to the Life by your ingenious Pen: Then Kings were Shepherds, and with equal Care 'Twixt Men and Sheep, did their Concernments share: There was no need of Rods and Axes then, Crooks rul'd the Sheep, and Virtue rul'd the Men: Then Laws were useless, for they knew no Sin, From Guilt secur'd by Innocence within: No Passion but the noblest, fill'd each Breast, They were too good to entertain the rest: Love, which is now become an Art, a Trade, It self to them with all its Sweets convey'd; Indulgent Nature their kind Tutress prov'd, And as she taught, without Deceit, they lov'd: Thus did they live; thus they employ'd their Hours; Beneath cool Shades, on Banks of fragrant Flow'rs, They sat and listen'd, while their Poets sung The Praises of the Brave, the Wise, the Young; What e'er was Good, or Great, their Theme they made, To Virtue still a Veneration paid; But Love did in each Song Precedence claim, And in soft Numbers they made known their Flame: Poets by Nature are to Love inclin'd; To them, the Lover's God was ever kind: They still observ'd his Laws, and all their Care Was to win Fame, and to oblige the Fair: But ah! dear Friend, those happy Days are past; Hard Fate! that only what is ill should last! Unhappy we! born in the Dregs of Time, Can ne'er to their vast height of Virtue climb; But lie immers'd in Vice, forsaken quite Of those pure Joys which did their Souls delight: We live disguis'd, nor can each other trust, But only seem obliging, kind and just, To serve our low Designs; by Int'rest sway'd, That pow'rful God by all Mankind obey'd! Nor are those Vices in the Town alone, The Country too does with the Pressure groan: For Innocence (once our peculiar boast) Is now with all her Train of Virtues lost; From hence to the divine Abodes retir'd Here undeserv'd, as well as undesir'd: Yet some imperfect Footsteps still are seen, That future Times may know they once have been: But oh! how few will tread that sacred way; By Vice, or Humor, most are led astray: Those few who dare be good, must live alone To all Mankind, except themselves, unknown: From a mad World, to some obscure Recess, They must retire, to purchase Happiness: Yet of this wretched Place so well you've writ, That I admire your Goodness and your Wit, And must confess your excellent Design To make it with its native lustre shine: To hide its Faults, and to expose to view Nought but its Beauties, is becoming you.