And show this queen of cities, that fo fair 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 must hang; but he that puts Have dwindled into unrefpected forms, And knees and haffocks are well-nigh divorced, 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 threatened 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 ftill Your element; there only ye can fhine, There only minds like yours can do no harm. Our groves were planted to confole 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 fplendor of your lamps, they but eclipfe Our Our fofter fatellite. Your fongs confound It plagues your country. Folly fuch as your's A mutilated structure, foon to fall, |