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With nice incision of her guided steel
She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soil
So fterile, with what charms foe'er she will,
The richest scen’ry and the loveliest forms,
Where finds philosophy her eagle eye,
With which she gazes at yon burning disk
Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots ?
In London; where her implements exact
With which she calculates, computes, and scans
All distance, motion, magnitude, and now
Measures an atom, and now girds a world?
In London; where has commerce such a mare,
So rich, so throng'd, so drain'd, and so supplied
As London, opulent, enlarged, and still
Increasing London ? Babylon of old
Not more the glory of the earth, than she
A more accomplish'd world's chief glory now,

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She has her praise, Now mark a spot or two That so much beauty would do well to purge ;

And

And show this queen of cities, that fo fair
May yet be foul, fo witty, yet not wise.
It is not seemly, nor of good report,
That she is Mack in discipline; more prompt
T'avenge than to prevent the breach of law:
That she is rigid in denouncing death
On

petty robbers, and indulges life
And liberty, and oft-times honor 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 weath 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 presun'd t'annul
And abrogate, as roundly as she may,
The total ordonnance 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 rices

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Have dwindled into unrespected forms,
And knees and hafsocks 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
Possess ye therefore, ye who, borne about
In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue
But that of idleness, and taste no scenes
But such 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 pensive wand'rer in their shades. At eve
The moon-beam, sliding softly in between
The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish,
Birds warbling all the music. We can spare
The splendor 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, stedfast but for you,
A mutilated structure, foon to fall,

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