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The dregs and fæculence of ev'ry land.
In cities foul example on most minds

Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds
In grofs and pamper'd cities floth and luft,
And wantonnefs and gluttonous 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' atchievement of fuccessful flight.
I do confefs them nurf'ries of the arts,

In which they flourish most: where in the beams
Of warm encouragement, and in the eye

Of public note they reach their perfect size.
Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'd

The fairest capital of all the world,

By riot and incontinence the worst.

There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank be

comes

A lucid mirror, in which nature fees

All her reflected features. Bacon there
Gives more than female beauty to a stone,
And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips.
Nor does the chiffel оссиру alone

The pow'rs of sculpture, but the ftyle as much;
Each province of her art her equal care.
With nice incifion of her guided steel

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

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The richest scen'ry and the lovelieft forms.
Where finds philofophy her eagle eye
With which the gazes at yon burning disk
Undazzled, and detects and counts his fpots ?
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, fo 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.
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 she 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 overgorged and bloated purse

The

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 prefum'd ť annul
And abrogate, as roundly as fhe may,
The total ordonnance and will of God;
Advancing fashion to the post 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 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, 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 idlenefs, and tafte no scenes
But fuch as art contrives, poffefs ye still
Your element; there only, ye can fhine,
There only minds like yours 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 softly in between
The fleeping leaves, is all the light they wish,
Birds warb'ling all the mufic. We can spare

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The fplendour of your lamps, they but eclipse
Our fofter fatellite. Your fongs confound
Our more harmonious notes. The thrush departs
Scared, and th' offended nightingale is mute.
There is a public mifchief in your mirth,

It plagues your country. Folly fuch as your's
Graced with a fword, 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.

THE

TA S K.

BOOK II.

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