II.

Where’er the routs full myriads close The staircase and the door, Where’er thick files of belles and beaus Perspire through ev’ry pore; Beside some faro-table’s brink, With me the Muse shall stand and think, (Hemmed sweetly in by squeeze of state,) How vast the comfort of the crowd, How condescending are the proud, How happy are the great!