And here with newest nicety represented,Is full of wonders, which our countrymenAnd others of congenial qualityHave with much circumstance of truth reported.—Away, ye flies; back to Beelzebub.—I, yes, as I was saying, this grand GlobeIs full of wonders. While the pallid herdOf Græcians limit their pedantic gazeTo some prodigious nominativus pendens,Or harry some Athenian cobblet's ghost,Let us imbibe—I say, let us imbibeFull draughts from our true Arethusan fountains.
As I, this very moment, sit in London(And do not know where I could sit more gladly)I scan the extended masterpiece of Earth:By this Globe's use we readily determineThe hour when the Great Mogul sits to dineIn India, or the Czar in Muscovy.This Globe assures me, there's a place on EarthWhere, though the air blows pure, the genius lociIs such that no two friends can there continueIn mutual love and friendship for two minutes.O sad amazement, should two noble youths(Collins for instance and—you, you rascal Hargrave)Of virtue and of studious parts, who longShared the same attic, pored on the same map,
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