Nor are the Nymphs that breathe the Rural air So fair as Cynthia’s, nor so chaste as fair; These to the Town afford each fresher face, And the Clown’s trull receives the Peer’s embrace; From whom, should chance again convey her down, The Peer’s disease in turn attacks the Clown. Here too the ’Squire, or ’squire-like Farmer, talk, How round their regions nightly pilferers walk; How from their ponds the fish are borne, and all The rip’ning treasures from their lofty wall; How meaner rivals in their sports delight, Just rich enough to claim a doubtful right; Who take a licence round their fields to stray, A mongrel race! the Poachers of the day. And hark! the riots of the Green begin, That sprang at first from yonder noisy Inn; What time the weekly pay was vanish’d all, And the slow Hostess scor’d the threat’ning wall; What time they ask’d, their friendly feast to close, A final cup, and that will make them foes; When blows ensue that break the arm of Toil, And rustic battle ends the boobies’ broil. Save when to yonder Hall they bend their way; Where the grave Justice ends the grievous fray; He who recites, to keep the Poor in awe, The Law’s vast volume--for he knows the Law.-- To him with anger or with shame repair The injur’d Peasant and deluded Fair. Lo! at his throne the silent Nymph appears, Frail by her shape, but modest in her tears; And while she stands abash’d, with conscious eye, Some favourite Female of her Judge glides by: Who views with scornful glance the strumpet’s fate, And thanks the stars that made her Keeper great: Near her the Swain, about to bear for life One certain evil, doubts ’twixt War and Wife; But, while the faultering Damsel takes her oath, Consents to wed, and so secures them both. Yet why, you ask, these humble crimes relate, Why make the Poor as guilty as the Great? To shew the Great, those mightier sons of Pride, How near in vice the lowest are allied; Such are their natures and their passions such, But these disguise too little, those too much: So shall the man of Power and Pleasure see In his own Slave as vile a wretch as he; In his luxurious Lord the Servant find His own low pleasures and degenerate mind: And each in all the kindred vices trace, Of a poor, blind, bewilder’d, erring Race; Who, a short time in varied fortune past, Die, and are equal in the dust at last. And you, ye Poor, who still lament your fate, Forbear to envy those you call the Great; And know, amid those blessings they possess, They are, like you, the victims of distress; While Sloth with many a pang torments her slave, Fear waits on Guilt, and Danger shakes the brave. Oh! if in life one noble Chief appears, Great in his name, while blooming in his years;