Page:Essays - Abraham Cowley (1886).djvu/57

I should at thee too, foolish city,
If it were fit to laugh at misery.
But thy estate, I pity.

XII.

Let but thy wicked men from out thee go,

And the fools that crowd thee so,-
Even thou, who dost thy millions boast,
A village less than Islington wilt grow,
A solitude almost.