Hard by Mile-end, the place so famed of late,
In prose and verse, for the great faction's treat;
Here we stood still, and after compliments
Of course, and wishing his good journey hence,
I asked what sudden causes made him fly
The once loved town, and his dear company;
When, on the hated prospect looking back,
Thus with just rage the good old Timon spake.
'Since virtue here in no repute is had,
Since worth is scorned, learning and sense unpaid,
And knavery the only thriving trade;
Finding my slender fortune every day
Dwindle, and waste insensibly away,
I, like a losing gamester, thus retreat,
To manage wiselier my last stake of fate;
While I have strength, and want no staff to prop
My tottering limbs, ere age has made me stoop
Beneath its weight, ere all my thread be spun,
And life has yet in store some sands to run,
’Tis my resolve to quit the nauseous town.
’Let thriving Morecraft[1] choose his dwelling there,
Rich with the spoils of some young spendthrift heir;
Let the plot-mongers stay behind, whose art
Can truth to sham, and sham to truth convert;
Whoever has an house to build, or set,
His wife, his conscience, or his oath to let;
Whoever has, or hopes for offices,
A navy, guard, or custom-house's place;
Let sharping courtiers stay, who there are great
By putting the false dice on king and state;
Where they, who once were grooms and footboys known,
Are now to fair estates and honours grown;
Nor need we envy them, or wonder much
At their fantastic greatness, since they're such,
Whom fortune oft in her capricious freaks
Is pleased to raise from kennels, and the jakes,
- ↑ A fashionable head-dresser.
