O bear me to the paths of fair Pall-mall! Safe are thy pavements, grateful is thy smell! At distance rolls along the gilded coach, Nor sturdy carmen on thy walks encroach; No lets would bar thy ways were chairs deny'd, The soft supports of laziness and pride: Shops breathe perfumes, through sashes ribbons glow, The mutual arms of ladies and the beau. Yet still e'en here, when rains the passage hide, Oft the loose stone spirts up a muddy tide Beneath thy careless foot; and from on high, Where masons mount the ladder, fragments fly, Mortar and crumbled lime in showers descend, And o'er thy head destructive tiles impend. Where Covent-garden's famous temple stands, That boasts the work of Jones' immortal hands; Columns with plain magnificence appear, And graceful porches lead along the square: Here oft my course I bend; when, lo! from far I spy the furies of the foot-ball war: The 'prentice quits his shop, to join the crew, Increasing crowds the flying game pursue. Thus, as you roll the ball o'er snowy ground, The gathering globe augments with every round. But whither shall I run? the throng draws nigh, The ball now skims the street, now soars on high: The dext'rous glazier strong returns the bound, And jingling sashes on the pent-house sound. Where Lincoln's-inn, wide space, is rail'd around, Cross not with venturous step; there oft is found The lurking thief, who, while the daylight shone, Made the walls echo with his begging tone: That crutch, which late compassion mov'd, shall wound Thy bleeding head, and fell thee to the ground. Though thou art tempted by the link-man's call, Yet trust him not along the lonely wall; In the mid-way he'll quench the flaming brand, And share the booty with the pilfering band. Still keep the public streets, where oily rays, Shot from the crystal lamp, o'erspread the ways. THE SOUTH SEA BUBBLE (1720).