SAY, lovely Nymphs! who fly from rural Sweets,
To noisy Crowds, thick Air, and smoaky Streets,
Do Balls, or Plays, your graceful Steps invite?
Can Balls, or Plays, like  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.