 | The Distressed Poet |  |
Tho' thus fair morn to these fair Maids
Brighten'd their own Aonian shades,
Yet they had sense enough to know
In London things could not be so;
Where the North East, o'er kennels blowing,
Must be more stinks than sweets bestowing,
Which, wafted from close courts, dead walls,
And murky lanes that round St. Paul's
On Ludgate Hill assail'd their noses
With smells, unlike the smell of Roses.—
But practis'd travellers little care
Whether or well, or ill they fare,
To each occurrence patient bend,
Still pushing forward to their end.
Brighten'd their own Aonian shades,
Yet they had sense enough to know
In London things could not be so;
51
Must be more stinks than sweets bestowing,
Which, wafted from close courts, dead walls,
And murky lanes that round St. Paul's
On Ludgate Hill assail'd their noses
With smells, unlike the smell of Roses.—
But practis'd travellers little care
Whether or well, or ill they fare,
To each occurrence patient bend,
Still pushing forward to their end.
| The Distressed Poet | |