O Gracious God! How far have we
Prophan'd thy Heav'nly Gift of Poesy?
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,
Debas'd 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 hurry'd down
This lubrique and adult'rate age,
(Nay added fat Pollutions of our own)
T'increase the steaming Ordures of the Stage?
What can we say t'excuse our _Second Fall_?
Let this thy _Vestal_, Heav'n, attone for all!
Her _Arethusian_ Stream remains unsoil'd,
Unmixt with Forreign Filth, and undefil'd,
Her Wit was more than Man, her Innocence a Child!