With nice incifion of her guided steel She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a foil The richest scen'ry and the loveliest forms. In London. Where has commerce such a mart, Not more the glory of the earth than she, She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two, That so much beauty would do well to purge; And fhow this queen of cities, that so fair That she is flack in difcipline; more prompt And liberty, and oft-times honour too, To peculators of the public gold: That thieves at home must hang; but he, that puts Into his overgorg'd and bloated purse The wealth of Indian provinces, efcapes. And customs of her own, till fabbath rites Have dwindled into unrespected forms, And knees and haffocs are well-nigh divorc❜d. God made the country, and man made the town. What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts That can alone make sweet the bitter draught That life holds out to all, fhould most abound And leaft be threaten'd in the fields and groves Poffefs ye, therefore, ye, who, born about But that of idleness, and taste no scenes ? Our fofter fatellite. Your fongs confound Our more harmonious notes: the thrush departs Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done, A mutilated structure, foon to fall. |