<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=539327" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Progress of Taste, or the Fate of Delicacy</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Part first.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Perhaps some cloud eclipsed the day,<br>When thus I tuned my pensive lay:<br>The ship is launch'd-we catch the gale-<br>On life's extended ocean sail:<br>For happiness our course we bend,<br>Our ardent cry, our general end!<br>Yet, ah! the scenes which tempt our care<br>Are, like the forms dispersed in air,<br>Still dancing near disorder'd eyes,<br>And weakest his who best descries!'<br>Yet let me not my birthright barter,<br>(For wishing is the poet's charter;<br>All bards have leave to wish what's wanted,<br>Though few e'er found their wishes granted;<br>Extensive field! where poets pride them<br>In singing all that is denied them).<br>For humble ease, ye Powers! I pray;<br>That plain warm suit for every day,<br>And pleasure and brocade, bestow,<br>To flaunt it-once a month, or so.<br>The first for constant wear we want;<br>The first, ye Powers! for ever grant;<br>But constant wear the last bespatters,<br>And turns the tissue into tatters.<br>Where'er my vagrant course I bend,<br>Let me secure one faithful friend.<br>Let me, in public scenes, request<br>A friend of wit and taste, well drest;<br>And, if I must not hope such favour,<br>A friend of wit and taste, however.<br>Alas! that Wisdom ever shuns<br>To congregate her scatter'd Sons,<br>Whose nervous forces, well combined,<br>Would win the field, and sway mankind.<br>The fool will squeeze, from morn to night,<br>To fix his follies full in sight;<br>The note he strikes, the plume he shows,<br>Attract whole flights of fops and beaus,<br>And kindred fools, who ne'er had known him,<br>Flock at the sight, caress and own him;<br>But ill-starr'd Sense, not gay nor loud,<br>Steals soft on tiptoe through the crowd;<br>Conveys his meagre form between,<br>And slides, like pervious air, unseen;<br>Contracts his known tenuity,<br>As though 'twere even a crime to be;<br>Nor even permits his eyes to stray,<br>And win acquaintance in their way.<br>In company, so mean his air,<br>You scarce are conscious he is there;<br>Till from some nook, like sharpen'd steel,<br>Occurs his face's thin profile,<br>Still seeming, from the gazer's eye,<br>Like Venus newly bathed, to fly:<br>Yet while reluctant he displays<br>His real gems before the blaze,<br>The fool hath, in its centre, placed<br>His tawdry stock of painted paste.<br>Disused to speak, he tries his skill,<br>Speaks coldly, and succeeds but ill;<br>His pensive manner dulness deem'd,<br>His modesty reserve esteem'd;<br>His wit unknown, his learning vain,<br>He wins not one of all the train:<br>And those who, mutually known,<br>In friendship's fairest list had shone,<br>Less prone than pebbles to unite,<br>Retire to shades from public sight,<br>Grow savage, quit their social nature,<br>And starve, to study mutual satire.<br>But friends and favourites, to chagrin them,<br>Find counties, countries, seas, between them;<br>Meet once a year, then part, and then<br>Retiring, wish to meet again.<br>Sick of the thought, let me provide<br>Some human form to grace my side:<br>At hand, where'er I shape my course,<br>An useful, pliant, stalking-horse!<br>No gesture free from some grimace,<br>No seam, without its share of lace,<br>But, mark'd with gold or silver either,<br>Hint where his coat was pieced together.<br>His legs be lengthen'd, I advise,<br>And stockings roll'd abridge his thighs.<br>What though Vandyke had other rules?<br>What had Vandyke to do with fools?<br>Be nothing wanting, but his mind;<br>Before a solitaire, behind<br>A twisted ribband, like the track<br>Which Nature gives an ass's back.<br>Silent as midnight! pity 'twere,<br>His wisdom's slender wealth to share!<br>And, whilst in flocks our fancies stray,<br>To wish the poor man's lamb away.<br>This form attracting every eye,<br>I stroll all unregarded by:<br>This wards the jokes of every kind,<br>As an umbrella sun or wind;<br>Or, like a sponge, absorbs the sallies<br>And pestilential fumes of malice;<br>Or, like a splendid shield, is fit<br>To screen the Templar's random wit;<br>Or, what some gentler cit lets fall,<br>As woolpacks quash the leaden ball.<br>Allusions these of weaker force,<br>And apter still the stalking-horse!<br>O let me wander all unseen<br>Beneath the sanction of his mien!<br>As lilies soft, as roses fair!<br>Empty as airpumps drain'd of air!<br>With steady eye and pace remark<br>The speckled flock that haunts the Park;<br>Level my pen with wondrous heed<br>At follies, flocking there to feed;<br>And as my satire burns amain,<br>See feather'd foppery strew the plain.<br>But when I seek my rural grove,<br>And share the peaceful haunts I love,<br>Let none of this unhallow'd train<br>My sweet sequester'd paths profane.<br>Oft may some polish'd virtuous friend<br>To these soft-winding vales descend,<br>And love with me inglorious things,<br>And scorn with me the pomp of kings;<br>And check me when my bosom burns<br>For statues, paintings, coins, and urns;<br>For I in Damon's prayer could join,<br>And Damon's wish might now be mine-<br>But all dispersed! the wish, the prayer,<br>Are driven to mix with common air.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Part second.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How happy once was Damon's lot,<br>While yet romantic schemes were not,<br>Ere yet he sent his weakly eyes,<br>To plan frail castles in the skies!<br>Forsaking pleasures cheap and common,<br>To court a blaze, still flitting from one.<br>Ah! happy Damon! thrice and more,<br>Had Taste ne'er touch'd thy tranquil shore.<br>Oh days! when to a girdle tied<br>The couples jingled at his side,<br>And Damon swore he would not barter<br>The sportsman's girdle for a garter.<br>Whoever came to kill an hour,<br>Found easy Damon in their power,<br>Pure social Nature all his guide;<br>'Damon had not a grain of pride.'<br>He wish'd not to elude the snares<br>Which Knavery plans, and Craft prepares,<br>But rather wealth to crown their wiles,<br>And win their universal smiles:<br>For who are cheerful, who at ease,<br>But they who cheat us as they please?<br>He wink'd at many a gross design<br>The new-fallen calf might countermine:<br>Thus every fool allow'd his merit;<br>'Yes; Damon had a generous spirit.'<br>A coxcomb's jest, however vile,<br>Was sure, at least, of Damon's smile;<br>That coxcomb ne'er denied him sense;<br>For why? it proved his own pretence.<br>All own'd, were modesty away,<br>Damon could shine as much as they.<br>When wine and folly came in season,<br>Damon ne'er strove to save his reason;<br>Obnoxious to the mad uproar,<br>A spy upon a hostile shore!<br>'Twas this his company endear'd;<br>Mirth never came till he appear'd.<br>His lodgings-every drawer could show them;<br>The slave was kick'd who did not know them.<br>Thus Damon, studious of his ease,<br>And pleasing all whom mirth could please,<br>Defied the world, like idle Colley,<br>To show a softer word than folly.<br>Since Wisdom's gorgon-shield was known<br>To stare the gazer into stone,<br>He chose to trust in Folly's charm,<br>To keep his breast alive and warm.<br>At length grave Learning's sober train<br>Remark'd the trifler with disdain;<br>The sons of Taste contemn'd his ways,<br>And rank'd him with the brutes that graze;<br>While they to nobler heights aspired,<br>And grew beloved, esteem'd, admired.<br>Hence with our youth, not void of spirit,<br>His old companions lost their merit,<br>And every kind well-natured sot<br>Seem'd a dull play, without a plot,<br>Where every yawning guest agrees,<br>The willing creature strives to please:<br>But temper never could amuse;<br>It barely led us to excuse;<br>'Twas true, conversing they averr'd<br>All they had seen, or felt, or heard;<br>Talents of weight! for wights like these<br>The law might choose for witnesses;<br>But sure th' attesting dry narration<br>Ill suits a judge of conversation.<br>What were their freedoms? mere excuses<br>To vent ill-manners, blows, and bruises.<br>Yet freedom, gallant freedom! hailing,<br>At form, at form, incessant railing,<br>Would they examine each offence,<br>Its latent cause, its known pretence.<br>Punctilio ne'er was known to breed them,<br>So sure as fond prolific freedom.<br>Their courage! but a loaded gun,<br>Machine the wise would wish to shun;<br>Its guard unsafe, its lock an ill one,<br>Where accident might fire and kill one<br>In short, disgusted out of measure,<br>Through much contempt, and slender pleasure,<br>His sense of dignity returns;<br>With native pride his bosom burns;<br>He seeks respect-but how to gain it?<br>Wit, social mirth, could ne'er obtain it;<br>And laughter, where it reigns uncheck'd,<br>Discards and dissipates respect:<br>The man who gravely bows, enjoys it,<br>But shaking hands, at once destroys it;<br>Precarious plant! which, fresh and gay,<br>Shrinks at the touch, and fades away!<br>Come then, Reserve! yet from thy train<br>Banish Contempt and cursed Disdain.<br>Teach me, he cried, thy magic art,<br>To act the decent distant part;<br>To husband well my complaisance;<br>Nor let even Wit too far advance;<br>But choose calm Reason for my theme,<br>In these her royal realms supreme,<br>And o'er her charms, with caution shown,<br>Be still a graceful umbrage thrown,<br>And each abrupter period crown'd<br>With nods, and winks, and smiles profound;<br>Till, rescued from the crowd beneath,<br>No more with pain to move or breathe,<br>I rise with head elate, to share<br>Salubrious draughts of purer air.<br>Respect is won by grave pretence,<br>And silence, surer even than sense.<br>'Tis hence the sacred grandeur springs<br>Of Eastern, and of other kings;<br>Or whence this awe to Virtue due,<br>While Virtue's distant as Peru?<br>The sheathless sword the guard displays,<br>Which round emits its dazzling rays;<br>The stately fort, the turrets tall,<br>Portculliss'd gate, and battled wall,<br>Less screens the body than controls,<br>And wards contempt from royal souls.<br>The crowns they wear but check the eye<br>Before it fondly pierce too nigh;<br>That dazzled crowds may be employ'd<br>Around the surface of-the void.<br>Oh, 'tis the stateman's craft profound<br>To scatter his amusements round,<br>To tempt us from their conscious breast,<br>Where full-fledged crimes enjoy their nest;<br>Nor awes us every worth reveal'd,<br>So deeply as each vice conceal'd.<br>The lordly log, despatch'd of yore,<br>That the frog people might adore,<br>With guards to keep them at a distance,<br>Had reign'd, nor wanted Wit's assistance;<br>Nay-had addresses from his nation,<br>In praise of log-administration.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Part third.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The buoyant fires of youth were o'er,<br>And fame and finery pleased no more,<br>Productive of that general stare,<br>Which cool reflection ill can bear!<br>And, crowds commencing mere vexation,<br>Retirement sent its invitation.<br>Romantic scenes of pendent hills,<br>And verdant vales, and falling rills,<br>And mossy banks the fields adorn,<br>Where Damon, simple swain! was born.<br>The Dryads rear'd a shady grove,<br>Where such as think, and such as love,<br>May safely sigh their summer's day,<br>Or muse their silent hours away.<br>The Oreads liked the climate well,<br>And taught the level plain to swell<br>In verdant mounds, from whence the eye<br>Might all their larger works descry.<br>The Naiads pour'd their urns around,<br>From nodding rocks o'er vales profound;<br>They form'd their streams to please the view,<br>And bade them wind, as serpents do,<br>And having shown them where to stray,<br>Threw little pebbles in their way.<br>These Fancy, all-sagacious maid!<br>Had at their several tasks survey'd:<br>She saw and smiled; and oft would lead<br>Our Damon's foot o'er hill and mead;<br>There, with descriptive finger, trace<br>The genuine beauties of the place;<br>And when she all its charms had shown,<br>Prescribe improvements of her own.-<br>'See yonder hill, so green, so round,<br>Its brow with ambient beeches crown'd!<br>'Twould well become thy gentle care<br>To raise a dome to Venus there;<br>Pleased would the nymphs thy zeal survey,<br>And Venus, in their arms, repay.<br>'Twas such a shade, and such a nook,<br>In such a vale, near such a brook;<br>From such a rocky fragment springing,<br>That famed Apollo chose to sing in;<br>There let an altar wrought with art<br>Engage the tuneful patron's heart:<br>How charming there to muse and warble<br>Beneath his bust of breathing marble!<br>With laurel wreath and mimic lyre,<br>That crown a poet's vast desire<br>Then, near it, scoop the vaulted cell<br>Where Music's charming maids may dwell;<br>Prone to indulge thy tender passion,<br>And make thee many an assignation.<br>Deep in the grove's obscure retreat<br>Be placed Minerva's sacred seat;<br>There let her awful turrets rise,<br>(For wisdom flies from vulgar eyes);<br>There her calm dictates shalt thou hear<br>Distinctly strike thy listening ear;<br>And who would shun the pleasing labour,<br>To have Minerva for his neighbour?'<br>In short, so charm'd each wild suggestion,<br>Its truth was little call'd in question<br>And Damon dreamt he saw the Fawns<br>And nymphs distinctly skim the lawns;<br>Now traced amid the trees, and then<br>Lost in the circling shades again,<br>With leer oblique their lover viewing-<br>And Cupid-panting-and pursuing-<br>'Fancy, enchanting Fair!' he cried,<br>'Be thou my goddess, thou my guide;<br>For thy bright visions I despise<br>What foes may think, or friends advise.<br>The feign'd concern when folks survey<br>Expense, time, study, cast away;<br>The real spleen with which they see;<br>I please myself and follow thee.'<br>Thus glow'd his breast, by Fancy warm'd,<br>And thus the fairy landscape charm'd;<br>But most he hoped his constant care,<br>Might win the favour of the fair;<br>And, wandering late through yonder glade,<br>He thus the soft design betray'd:-<br>'Ye Doves! for whom I rear'd the grove,<br>With melting lays salute my love!<br>My Delia with your notes detain,<br>Or I have rear'd the grove in vain.<br>Ye flowers which early spring supplies,<br>Display at once your brightest dyes,<br>That she your opening charms may see,<br>Or what were else your charms to me?<br>Kind Zephyr! brush each fragrant flower,<br>And shed its odours round my bower,<br>Or ne'er again, O gentle wind,<br>Shall I in thee refreshment find.<br>Ye Streams! if e'er your banks I loved.<br>If e'er your native sounds improved,<br>May each soft murmur soothe my fair,<br>Or, oh! 'twill deepen my despair.<br>Be sure, ye Willows, you be seen,<br>Array'd in liveliest robes of green,<br>Or I will tear your slighted boughs,<br>And let them fade around my brows;<br>And thou, my Grot! whose lonely bounds<br>The melancholy pine surrounds,<br>May she admire thy peaceful gloom,<br>Or thou shalt prove her lover's tomb.'<br>And now the lofty domes were rear'd,<br>Loud laugh'd the squires, the rabble stared.<br>'See, Neighbours! what our Damon's doing;<br>I think some folks are fond of ruin!<br>I saw his sheep at random stray-<br>But he has thrown his crook away-<br>And builds such huts as, in foul weather,<br>Are fit for sheep nor shepherd neither.'<br>Whence came the sober swain misled?<br>Why, Phoebus put it in his head:<br>Phoebus befriends him we are told;<br>And Phoebus coins bright tuns of gold.<br>'Twere prudent not to be so vain on't.<br>I think he'll never touch a grain on't.<br>And if from Phoebus and his muse,<br>Mere earthly laziness ensues;<br>'Tis plain, for aught that I can say,<br>The devil inspires as well as they.<br>So they-while fools of grosser kind,<br>Less weeting what our bard design'd,<br>Impute his schemes to real evil;<br>That in these haunts he met the devil.<br>He own'd, though their advice was vain,<br>It suited wights who trod the plain;<br>For dulness-though he might abhor it,<br>In them he made allowance for it;<br>Nor wonder'd, if, beholding mottos,<br>And urns, and domes, and cells, and grottos,<br>Folks, little dreaming of the Muses,<br>Were plagued to guess their proper uses.<br>But did the Muses haunt his cell?<br>Or in his dome did Venus dwell?<br>Did Pallas in his counsels share?<br>The Delian god reward his prayer?<br>Or did his zeal engage the fair?<br>When all the structure shone complete,<br>Not much convenient, wondrous neat;<br>Adorn'd with gilding, painting, planting,<br>And the fair guests alone were wanting;<br>Ah, me! ('twas Damon's own confession)<br>Came Poverty and took possession.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Part fourth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Why droops my Damon, whilst he roves<br>Through ornamented meads and groves,<br>Near columns, obelisks, and spires,<br>Which every critic eye admires?<br>'Tis Poverty, detested maid!<br>Sole tenant of their ample shade;<br>'Tis she that robs him of his ease,<br>And bids their very charms displease.<br>But now, by Fancy long controll'd,<br>And with the sons of Taste enroll'd,<br>He deem'd it shameful to commence<br>First minister to Common-sense;<br>Far more elated, to pursue<br>The lowest talk of dear virtu.<br>And now, behold his lofty soul,<br>That whilom flew from pole to pole,<br>Settle on some elaborate flower,<br>And, like a bee, the sweets devour!<br>Now, of a rose enamour'd, prove<br>The wild solicitudes of love!<br>Now, in a lily's cup enshrined,<br>Forego the commerce of mankind!<br>As in these toils he wore away<br>The calm remainder of his day;<br>Conducting sun, and shade, and shower,<br>As most might glad the new-born flower,<br>So fate ordain'd-before his eye<br>Starts up the long-sought butterfly,<br>While fluttering round, her plumes unfold<br>Celestial crimson, dropt with gold.<br>Adieu, ye bands of flowerets fair!<br>The living beauty claims his care:<br>For this he strips-nor bolt nor chain<br>Could Damon's warm pursuit restrain.<br>See him o'er hill, morass, or mound,<br>Where'er the speckled game is found,<br>Though bent with age, with zeal pursue,<br>And totter towards the prey in view.<br>Nor rock nor stream his steps retard<br>Intent upon the blest reward!<br>One vassal fly repays the chase!<br>A wing, a film, rewards the race!<br>Rewards him, though disease attend,<br>And in a fatal surfeit end.<br>So fierce Camilla skimm'd the plain,<br>Smit with the purple's pleasing stain;<br>She eyed intent the glittering stranger,<br>And knew, alas! nor fear nor danger;<br>Till deep within her panting heart<br>Malicious Fate impell'd the dart.<br>How studious he what favourite food<br>Regales Dame Nature's tiny brood;<br>What junkets fat the filmy people,<br>And what liqueurs they choose to tipple!<br>Behold him, at some crise, prescribe,<br>And raise with drugs the sickening tribe!<br>Or haply, when their spirits falter,<br>Sprinkling my Lord of Cloyne's tar-water!<br>When Nature's brood of insects dies,<br>See how he pimps for amorous flies!<br>See him the timely succour lend her,<br>And help the wantons to engender!<br>Or see him guard their pregnant hour,<br>Exert his soft obstetric power,<br>And lending each his lenient hand,<br>With new-born grubs enrich the land!<br>O Wilks! what poet's loftiest lays<br>Can match thy labours, and thy praise?<br>Immortal Sage! by Fate decreed<br>To guard the moth's illustrious breed!<br>Till fluttering swarms on swarms arise,<br>And all our wardrobes teem with flies!<br>And must we praise this taste for toys?<br>Admire it then in girls and boys.<br>Ye youths of fifteen years, or more!<br>Resign your moths-the season's o'er;<br>'Tis time more social joys to prove;<br>'Twere now your nobler task to love.<br>Let -'s eyes more deeply warm;<br>Nor, slighting Nature's fairest form,<br>The bias of your souls determine<br>Towards the mean love of Nature's vermin.<br>But, ah! how wondrous few have known,<br>To give each stage of life its own!<br>'Tis the pretexta's utmost bound,<br>With radiant purple edged around,<br>To please the child; whose glowing dyes<br>Too long delight maturer eyes:<br>And few, but with regret, assume<br>The plain-wrought labours of the loom.<br>Ah! let not me by fancy steer,<br>When life's autumnal clouds appear;<br>Nor even in learning's long delays<br>Consume my fairest, fruitless days;<br>Like him, who should in armour spend<br>The sums that armour should defend.<br>Awhile in Pleasure's myrtle bower<br>We share her smiles, and bless her power;<br>But find at last, we vainly strive<br>To fix the worst coquette alive.<br>O you! that with assiduous flame<br>Have long pursued the faithless dame;<br>Forsake her soft abodes awhile,<br>And dare her frown, and slight her smile;<br>Nor scorn, whatever wits may say,<br>The footpath road, the king's highway;<br>No more the scrupulous charmer tease,<br>But seek the roofs of honest Ease;<br>The rival fair, no more pursued,<br>Shall there with forward pace intrude;<br>Shall there her every art essay<br>To win you to her slighted sway,<br>And grant your scorn a glance more fair<br>Than e'er she gave your fondest prayer.<br>But would you happiness pursue?<br>Partake both ease and pleasure too?<br>Would you, through all your days, dispense<br>The joys of reason and of sense?<br>Or give to life the most you can?<br>Let social virtue shape the plan.<br>For does not to the virtuous deed<br>A train of pleasing sweets succeed?<br>Or, like the sweets of wild desire,<br>Did social pleasures ever tire?<br>Yet midst the group be some preferr'd,<br>Be some abhorr'd-for Damon err'd:<br>And such there are-of fair address-<br>As 'twere unsocial to caress.<br>O learn by Reason's equal rule<br>To shun the praise of knave or fool;<br>Then, though you deem it better still<br>To gain some rustic squire's good-will;<br>And souls, however mean or vile,<br>Like features, brighten by a smile;<br>Yet Reason holds it for a crime,<br>The trivial breast should share thy time:<br>And Virtue, with reluctant eyes,<br>Beholds this human sacrifice!<br>Through deep reserve and air erect,<br>Mistaken Damon won respect;<br>But could the specious homage pass<br>With any creature, but an ass?<br>If conscious, they who fear'd the skin<br>Would scorn the sluggish brute within.<br>What awe-struck slaves the towers enclose,<br>Where Persian monarchs eat and doze!<br>What prostrate reverence all agree<br>To pay a prince they never see!<br>Mere vassals of a royal throne;<br>The Sophi's virtues must be shown,<br>To make the reverence his own.<br>As for Thalia-wouldst thou make her<br>Thy bride without a portion?-take her:<br>She will with duteous care attend,<br>And all thy pensive hours befriend;<br>Will swell thy joys, will share thy pain,<br>With thee rejoice, with thee complain;<br>Will smooth thy pillow, plait thy bowers,<br>And bind thy aching head with flowers.<br>But be this previous maxim known-<br>If thou canst feed on love alone;<br>If, bless'd with her, thou canst sustain<br>Contempt, and poverty, and pain;<br>If so-then rifle all her graces-<br>And fruitful be your fond embraces!<br>Too soon, by caitiff Spleen inspired,<br>Sage Damon to his groves retired,<br>The path disclaimed by sober Reason;<br>Retirement claims a later season,<br>Ere active youth and warm desires,<br>Have quite withdrawn their lingering fires.<br>With the warm bosom, ill agree<br>Or limpid stream or shady tree<br>Love lurks within the rosy bower,<br>And claims the speculative hour;<br>Ambition finds his calm retreat,<br>And bids his pulse too fiercely beat;<br>Even social Friendship duns his ear,<br>And cites him to the public sphere.<br>Does he resist their genuine force?<br>His temper takes some froward course,<br>Till passion, misdirected, sighs<br>For weeds, or shells, or grubs, or flies!<br>Far happiest he whose early days,<br>Spent in the social paths of praise,<br>Leave, fairly printed on his mind,<br>A train of virtuous deeds behind:<br>From this rich fund the memory draws<br>The lasting meed of self-applause.<br>Such fair ideas lend their aid<br>To people the sequester'd shade:<br>Such are the Naiads, Nymphs, and Fawns,<br>That haunt his floods or cheer his lawns.<br>If, where his devious ramble strays,<br>He Virtue's radiant form surveys,<br>She seems no longer now to wear<br>The rigid mien, the frown severe;<br>To show him her remote abode,<br>To point the rocky arduous road;<br>But from each flower his fields allow,<br>She twines a garland for his brow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Shenstone">William Shenstone</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=539327" data-title="The Progress of Taste, or the Fate of Delicacy de William Shenstone" data-description="Part first. Perhaps some cloud eclipsed the day, When thus I tuned my pensive lay: The ship is launch'd-we catch the gale- On life's extended ocean sail: For happiness our course we bend, Our ardent cry, our general end! Yet, ah! the scenes which..."></div> </div> </div>

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