With nice incifion of her guided steel She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a foil The richest fcen'ry and the loveliest forms, In London. Where has commerce fuch a mart, 1 So rich, fo throng'd, fo drain'd, and fo fupplied, Increafing, London? Babylon of old She has her praise. Now mark a fpot or two, That fo much beauty would do well to purge; . And show this queen of cities, that fo fair 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. 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 fweet the bitter draught But fuch as art contrives, poffefs ye ftill 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 mischief 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, stedfast but for you, A mutilated structure, foon to fall. |