XXXII.
There, Paſſions tearing guſts tempeſtuous riſe.
Are theſe, he murmurs, theſe my friends! the beſt
That croud my hall! the Sonnes of madning Noiſe,
Whoſe warmeſt friendſhip with the revel dies?
Whoſe glee it were my deareſt peace deſtroy,
Who with my woes could ſport, my wrongs deſpiſe;
Could round my coffin pledge the cup of Joy,
And on my crimes even then their baſe-tongued witt employ:
XXXIII.
Takes up the barkings of Impiety,
The Scepticks wild diſjointed dreams retails,
These modern ravings of Philoſophy
Made drunk, the Cavil, the detected Ly,
The witt of Ignorance, and Gloſs unfair,
Which honeſt Dullneſs would with ſhame deny;
The hope of Baſeneſs vaumpt in Candours air:
Good Heaven! are ſuch the friends that to my hearth repair!
