With nice incision of her guided steel
She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a foil
So fterile with what charms foe'er she will,
The richest scen’ry and the loveliest forms.
Where finds philosophy her eagle eye;
With which she gazes at yon burning disk
Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots ?
In London: where her implements exact,
With which she calculates, computes, and scans, ,
All distance, motion, magnitude, and now
Measures an atom, and now girds a world?
In London. Where has commerce such a mart,
So rich, so throng’d, fo drain’d, and so fupplied,
As London-opulent, enlarg’d, and still
Increasing, London ? Babylon of old
Not more the glory of the earth than she,
A more accomplish'd world's chief glory now.



She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two, That so much beauty would do well to purge;

And show this queen of cities, that so fair May yet be foul; fo witty, yet not wife. It is not seemly, nor of good report, That she is Nack in discipline; more prompt. T'avenge than to prevent the breach of law: That she is rigid in denouncing death On petty robbers, and indulges life 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, escapes. Nor is it well, nor can it come to good, That, through profane and infidel contempt Of holy writ, she has presum'd t' annul And abrogate, as roundly as she may, The total ordinance and will of God; . Advancing fashion to the post of truth, And centring all authority in modés And customs of her own, till fabbath rites

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Have dwindled into unrespected forms,
And knees and hassocs are well-nigh diyorc'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, should most abound And least be threaten’d in the fields and groves ? Possess ye, therefore, ye, who, born about In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue But that of idleness, and taste no scenes But such as art contrives, possess ye still Your element; there only can ye shine ; There only minds like your's can do no harm. Our groves were planted to console at noon The pensive wand'rer in their shades. At eve . The moon-beam, sliding softly in between The Deeping leaves, is all the light they wish, Birds warbling all the music. We can spare The fplendour of your lamps; they but eclipse



Our softer satellite. Your songs confound
Our more harmonious notes: the thrush departs
Scar'd, and th' offended nightingale is mute.
There is a public mischief in your mirth;
It plagues your country. Folly such as your's,
Grac'd with a sword, and worthier of a fan,
Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done,
Our arch of empire, stedfast but for you,
A mutilated structure, soon to fall.

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