With nice incision of her guided steel She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two, That so much beauty would do well to purge; 1 And show this queen of cities, that so fair To peculators of the public gold: That thieves at home must hang; but he, that puts Into his overgorg'd and bloated purfe The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes. 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, should most abound And leaft be threaten'd in the fields and groves? Possess ye, therefore, ye, who, born about In chariots and fedans, know no fatigue But that of idleness, and taste no scenes But such as art contrives, possess ye ftill Your element; there only can ye shine; There only minds like your's can do no harm. Our groves were planted to confole at noon The pensive wand'rer in their shades. At eve The moon-beam, sliding softly in between The fleeping leaves, is all the light they wish, Birds warbling all the music. We can spare The fplendour 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 mischief in your mirth; It plagues your country. Folly such as your's, A mutilated structure, foon to fall. |