With nice incifion of her guided steel

She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a foil.
So fterile, with what charms foe'er fhe will,

The richeft fcen'ry and the lovelieft forms.
Where finds philosophy her eagle eye,
With which the gazes at yon burning disk
Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots?
In London; where her implements exact
With which fhe calculates, computes, and scans
All distance, motion, magnitude, and now
Measures an atom, and now girds a world?
In London; where has commerce fuch a mart,
So rich, fo throng'd, so drain'd, and so supplied
As London, opulent, enlarged, and still
Increafing London? Babylon of old

Not more the glory of the earth, than she
A more accomplish'd world's chief glory now,

She has her praife. Now mark a fpot or two That fo much beauty would do well to purge;

And

And show this queen of cities, that so fair

May yet be foul, fo witty, yet not wife.
It is not feemly, nor of good report,

That she is flack in difcipline; 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 muft hang; but he that puts
Into his overgorg'd and bloated purfe

The weath of Indian provinces, efcapes.
Nor is it well, nor can it come to good,
That, through profane and infidel contempt
Of holy writ, fhe has prefum'd t' annul
And abrogate, as roundly as she may,'
The total ordonnance and will of God;
Advancing fashion to the poft of truth,
And cent'ring all authority in modes

And cuftoms of her own, till fabbath rites

Have dwindled into unrefpected forms,

And knees and haffocks 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, fhould most abound And least be threaten'd 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 shine, There only minds like yours can do no harm, Our groves were planted to console 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 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 sword, and worthier of a fan,

Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done,

Our arch of empire, stedfast but for

A mutilated structure, soon to fall,

you,