Classic Poem

Say, lovely Nymphs! who fly from rural Sweets,
To noisy Crouds, thick Air, and smoky Streets,
Do Balls, or Plays, your graceful Steps invite?
Can Balls, or Plays, like Richmond Groves, delight?
No tuneful Philomel , in Town, complains,
To charm your list'ning Ear with vary'd Strains;
No fragrant Gales refresh the sick'ning Fields,
No chearful flow'ry Scenes the City yields:
But Mists, and lambent Fogs, where-e'er you pass,
Shall cloud the Graces that adorn your Face;
While those bright Eyes, like sully'd Gems, appear,
Or Stars, just glimm'ring thro' the dusky Air.

N OR will you only Change of Beauty find;
Illusive Scenes will mock your pensive Mind:
In cloudless Mornings, when you've drank your Tea,
And read a Page in S HERLOCK , or in — — G AY ;
Perhaps your Thoughts, transported, here may rove,
And, to your Mind, present the blissful Grove:
You'll think to walk by silver Thames 's Shore;
Or trace the verdant Mead, as heretofore,
When at the Door, the rural Vision flies,
Smoak, Coaches, Fops, and Carmen meet your Eyes:
Straight back you'll turn, vex'd with the fruitless Search;
Bid R OBERT call a Chair, and go to Church .