Classic Poem

In pity to the emptying town
Some god May Fair invented,
When nature would invite us down,
To be by art prevented.

What a corrupted taste is ours
When milkmaids in mock-state
Instead of garlands made of flowers
Adorn their pails with plate.

So are the joys which nature yields
Inverted in May Fair;
In painted cloth we look for fields,
And step in booths for air.

Here a dog dancing on his hams
And puppets moved by wire
Do far exceed your frisking lambs
Or song of feathered quire.

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.

Then pray think this a lucky hit,
Nor ne'er expect another,
For honest Harry is no wit,
Though he's a younger brother.