 | May Fair |  |
Or let it give another tweak,
The common, bleakest of the bleak,
Where not even gipsies make their den,
A sallow waste of weed and fen,
Some sullen solitude of sand,
Some second Bagshot of the land,
Where, but a highwayman, or Duke,
No man would give a second look;
Wave but thy cue, a palace rises,
A wood the native eye surprises;
A river through the meadows gushes,
You count the vine and peach by bushes;
Along the causeway's narrow'd border
A portal, Nash's native order:
Sublime whitewasher, great rough caster,
The Michael Angelo of plaster;
That, give him but his fling in brick,
Defies the Roman and the Greek;
Invites the passing stage-coach noses
To drink the otto of its roses.
The common, bleakest of the bleak,
Where not even gipsies make their den,
A sallow waste of weed and fen,
Some sullen solitude of sand,
Some second Bagshot of the land,
Where, but a highwayman, or Duke,
No man would give a second look;
Wave but thy cue, a palace rises,
A wood the native eye surprises;
187
You count the vine and peach by bushes;
Along the causeway's narrow'd border
A portal, Nash's native order:
Sublime whitewasher, great rough caster,
The Michael Angelo of plaster;
That, give him but his fling in brick,
Defies the Roman and the Greek;
Invites the passing stage-coach noses
To drink the otto of its roses.
| May Fair | |