Chapter 5 No.5

O gracious God! how far have we

Profaned thy heavenly gift of Poesy!

Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,

Debased to each obscene and impious use,

Whose harmony was first ordain'd above

For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love!

O wretched we! why were we hurried down

This lubrique and adulterate age,

(Nay added fat pollutions of our own,)

To increase the streaming ordures of the stage?

What can we say to excuse our second fall?

Let this thy vestal, Heaven, atone for all:

Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil'd,

Unmix'd with foreign filth, and undefiled:

Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.