NOW FIRST PUBLISHED
I
In pity to the empty’ng Town,
Some God May Fair invented,
When Nature would invite us down,
To be by Art prevented.
II
What a corrupted taste is ours
When milk maids in mock state
Instead of garlands made of Flowers
Adorn their pails with plate.
III
So are the joys which Nature yields
Inverted in May Fair,
In painted cloth we look for fields,
And step in Booths for air.
IV
Here a Dog dancing on his hams
And puppets mov’d by wire,
Do far exceed your frisking lambs,
Or song of feather’d quire.
V
Howe’er, such verse as yours I grant
Would be but too inviting:
Were fair Ardelia not my Aunt,
Or were it Worsley’s writing.