With nice incifion of her guided steel She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a foil Not more the glory of the earth, than fhe She has her praife, Now mark a fpot or two That fo much beauty would do well to purge; And And show this queen of cities, that so fair May yet be foul, fo witty, yet not wife. That she is flack in difcipline; more prompt And liberty, and oft-times honor too, To peculators of the public gold: That thieves at home muft hang; but he that puts Into his overgorg'd and bloated purse Have dwindled into unrefpected forms, 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 least be threaten'd in the fields and groves? Poffefs ye therefore, ye who, borne about In chariots and fedans, know no fatigue But that of idleness, and taste no scenes But fuch as art contrives, poffefs ye still Your element; there only ye can shine, There only minds like yours can do no harm, Our groves were planted to console at noon The penfive wand'rer in their fhades. At eve The moon-beam, fliding foftly in between The fleeping leaves, is all the light they wish, Birds warbling all the mufic. We can spare The splendor of your lamps, they but eclipse Our fofter fatellite. Your fongs confound Our more harmonious notes: the thrush departs Scar'd, and th' offended nightingale is mute. There is a public mifchief in your mirth, It plagues your country. Folly fuch as your's, Grac'd with a fword, and worthier of a fan, Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done, Our arch of empire, ftedfast but for you, A mutilated structure, foon to fall. |