Not more the glory of the earth than the,
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; so witty, yet not wife. It is not seemly, nor of good report, That she is flack in discipline; more prompt T' avenge than to prevent the breach of law: That the 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 the may,
The total ordinance and will of God;
Advancing fashion to the post of truth,
And cent'ring all authority in modes

And customs of her own, till fabbath rites
Have dwindled into unrespected forms,
And knees and hassocs 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 least be threaten'd in the fields and groves? Poffefs ye, therefore, ye, who, born about In chariots and fedans, know no fatigue But that of idleness, and taste no scenes But fuch 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 fleeping leaves, is all the light they with, Birds warbling all the music. We can spare The splendour of your lamps; they but eclipse Our softer satellite. 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,
Grac'd with a sword, and worthier of a fan,
Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done,
Our arch of empire, stedfaft but for you,
A mutilated structure, soon to fall.

D2

3

THE TASK.

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BOOK II.

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1