As to a common and most noisome few'r,
The dregs and feculence of ev'ry land.
In cities foul example on moft minds
Begets its likene's. Rank abundance breeds
In grofs and pamper'd cities floth and luft,
And wantonnefs and glutonous excess.
In cities vice is hidden with most ease,

Or feen with leaft reproach; and virtue, taught
By frequent lapfe, can hope no triumph there
Beyond th' achievement of fuccefsful flight.
I do confefs them nurs'ries of the arts,

In which they flourish moft; where, in the beams
Of warm encouragement, and in the eye

Of public note, they reach their perfect size.

Such London is, by tafte and wealth proclaim'd
The faireft capital of all the world,

By riot and incontinence the worst.

There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes
A lucid mirror, in which Nature fees
All her reflected features. Bacon there
Gives more than female beauty to a stone,
And Chotham's eloquence to marble lips.
Nor does the chiffel occupy alone

The pow'rs of fculpture, but the style as much;
Each province of her art her equal care.
With nice incifion of her guided fteel

She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a foil
So fterile with what charms foe'er fhe will,
The richest fcen'ry and the loveliest 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 the 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 fo fupplied,
As London-opulent, enlarg'd, 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 spot or two, That fo much beauty would do well to purge ;. And fhow 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 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 muft hang; but he, that puts
Into his overgorg'd and bloated purfe
The wealth of Indian provinces, efcapes.
Nor is it well, nor can it come to good,
That, through profane and infidel contempt
Of holy writ, he has prefum'd t' annul
And abrogate, as roundly as fhe may,
The total ordinance 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 fweet 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 tafte no scenes But fuch as art contrives, poffefs 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 penfive wand'rer in their shades. 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 splendour 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 mifchief 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, ftedfaft but for you,

A mutilated ftructure, foon to fall,