And show this queen of cities, that fo fair
May yet be foul, so witty, yet not, wise.
It is not seemly, nor of good report
That she is Nack 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 overgorged 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 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 rites

Have

D4

Have dwindled into unrespected forms,
And knees and hafsocks are well-nigh divorced,

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 threatened 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 sine, 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

Our softer satellite, Your songs confound
Our more harmonious notes. The thrush departs
Scared, 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, which enemies could ne'er have done,
Our arch of empire, stedfast but for you,
A mutilated structure, soon to fall,