To R. B—D, Esq Oxford

You say you vastly long to hear, What great inducements we have here, That coaxes all our courtiers down, And half depopulates the town; Like Bath, you think our streets are fine, Our squares and crescents all divine; You think our hills and vales produce The pomgranate, or nectar juice: In rhime you ask me to relate, The wonders of its present state: Tho' you're a critic, yet I'll try To give it you in poetry.

This town, or village of renown, Like London Bridge, half broken down, Few yers ago was worse than Wapping, Not fit for human soul to stop in; But now, like to a worn-out shoe, By patching well, the place will do. You'd wonder much, I'm sure, to see, How it's becramm'd with quality: Here Lords and Ladies oft carouse Together in a tiny house; Like Joan and Darby in their cot, With stool and table, spit and pot; And what his valet would despise, His lordship praises to the skies; But such the ton is, such the case, You'll see the first of rank or place, With star and riband, all profuse, Duck at his door-way like a goose: The humble beam was plac'd so low, Perhaps to teach some clown to bow.

The air is pure as pure can be, And such an aspect of the sea! As you, perhaps, ne'er saw before, From off the side of any shore: On one hand Ceres spread, her plain, And on the other, o'er the main, Many a bark majestic laves Upon the salt and buoyant waves; The hills all mantl'd o'er with green, A friendly shelter to the Styene, Whene'er the rugged Boreas blows, Bemingled with unwelcome snows: Such is the place and situation, Such is the reigning seat of fashion.