Then practice, ye drivelling drones, as you’ve preach’d,
Pray what’s it to you—how a dancer is breech’d?
On the fate of the Pope, pause, and awfully think,
And your mitres will totter, your lawn-sleeves will shrink;
For on beauty and symmetry fancy will feast,
To vigour of body they give mental zest,
Let Parisot’s petticoats beauties disclose,
Ne’er take up such ticklish subjects as those.