SIR
,

Happy are you that breath Air,
And drink of rapid Streams as Cristal clear;
While wretched we the baleful Influence mourn
Of cold Aquarius and his weeping Urn.
Eternal Mists their dropping Course distil,
And drizly Vapours all the Ditches fill.
The swampy Land's a Bog, the Fields are Seas,
And too much Moisture is the grand Disease.
Here ev'ry Eye with brackish Rheum o'erflows,
And a fresh Drop still hangs at ev'ry Nose.
Here the Winds rule with uncontested Right,
The wanton Gods at Pleasure take their Flight;
No sheltring Hedge, no Tree, or spreading Bough,
Obstruct their Course, but unconfin'd they blow.
With dewy Wings they sweep the wat'ry Meads,
And proudly trample o'er the bending Reeds.
Both North and Southern Blasts the Region feels,
One sinks us deep in Floods, and one congeals.
Moted around the Water is our Fence,
None come to us, and none can go from hence.
Sure this is Nature's Goal for Rogues design'd,
Whoever lives with us, must live confin'd.
Nay, 'tis as vain to wish for Sunny Days,
Altho' the God of Light condense his Rays,
And try his Pow'r, we must in Water lie,
All still is Marsh the Fen will ne'er be dry.
But should a milder Day invite abroad,
To go thro' Mire, or wallow in the Mud,
Some envious Ditch will quickly thwart the Road:
And then a small round Twig is all our Hopes,
We pass not Bridges, but we dance on Ropes.
All Dogs here take the Water, and we find

Rabbits with Ducks, and Geese here sail with Hens,
And all for Food must paddle in the Fens.
Nay, when Provision fails, the hungry Mouse
Will fear a neighb'ring House.
The good old Dam clucks boldly thro' the Stream,
And Chickens newly hatch'd assay to swim.
All have a Moorish Taste, Cow, Sheep, and Swine,
Savour of Fen, and still on Frog you dine.
Bread is our only Sauce, a Barly-Cake,
Hard as your Cheese, and as the Devil black.
Our choicest Drink, (and that's the greatest Curse)
Is but bad Water, made by Brewing worse.
To him that hath is always given more,
And a new Stock supplies the rising Store.
Not only Rain from bounteous Heav'n descends;
But Ocean with an After-Flood befriends:
For Nature this as a Relief designs,
To salt the stinking Water of the Fens.
As when of late enraged Neptune swore,
This Land his own, part of his lawful Shore,
He spake, and held his Trident o'er the Plain;
And soon the Waves possess'd their old Domain:
They scorn'd the Shore; and o'er the Marshes round,
Our Mud-Wall Cots were levell'd to the Ground.
Tho' the coarse Buildings are so homely low,
That when the House is fal'n you hardly know.
Bury'd we are alive, the spatious Dome
Has, like the Grave, but one poor scanty Room,
Neither so large nor lofty as a Tomb.
Thus, as in th'Ark, here, in one common Stie,
Men and their Fellow Brutes with equal Honour lie.
No joyous Birds here stretch their tuneful Throats,
And pierce the yielding Air with thrilling Notes,
But the hoarse Sea-Pyes with their odious Cry,
Fly o'er the Marsh, and tell that Storms are nigh.
The curs'd Night Raven, and the hooping Owl,
Disturb our Rest, and scare the guilty Soul.
Here Gnats surround you with their humming Drone,
Worse than e'er plagu'd th'Egyptian Tyrant's Throne;
In vain the weary Limbs expect Repose,
Their Din invades your Ears, their Stings your Nose.
The sighing Lover here may toss and turn,
And under double Itch, and Anguish mourn.
While bright Celinda's Beauties fire his Heart,
These Devils wound in ev'ry other Part.
While yawning, half-asleep, his Toast he names,
Wak'd, up he starts, and these new Tortures damns.
And may the charming too relentless Fair,
Who haughty slight their fond Adorer's Care,
Fretting and scratching all the Night employ;
Nor till they're kinder, feel a better Joy.
Methinks I see these Plagues assault the Breast,
The snowy Mounts, where Strephon fain would rest;
Mark'd with the Bite they rise in full Disdain,
Yet swell they not with half poor Strephon's Pain.
While Roger, unmolested, with his Joan,
Tir'd with their Toils, still snore, and still sleep on.
Their Auburn Skins impenetrable found,
In vain the Gnat's Proboscis strives to wound.
He sooner might expect his Force to shoot
Thro' the strong Fortress of a tough Jack-Boot;
And tawny Doll, if e'er the Bed's too warm,
Turns out her naked Bum, and dares the threatning swarm.
Serpents innum'rous o'er these Mud-Banks roam,
Man's greatest Foe thought this his safest Home:
Nor cou'd he expect a fit Retreat to find
More likely to be void of Humane Kind,
And yet if Dust be doom'd the Serpent's Meat,
'Tis wondrous strange if here they ever eat.
Agues and Coughs with us as constant reign,
As Itch in Scotland or the Flux in Spain.
Under the bending Hill's declining Brow,
Where Toad-Stools only to Perfection grow,
A Cave there is, I thought by Nature made
For want of Trees a necessary Shade:
Hither I came, and void of Fear and Doubt,
Drew near the Entrance of the gloomy Grot;
But ah!-This was the Place, the dismal Cell,
Where spitting Cold and shiv'ring Agues dwell.
The constant Home of the malicious Fiend,
Who with her Third-Days Visit plagues Mankind.
Here a small Fire glow'd in a smoaking Grate,
And hov'ring o'er the Coals old Febris sate.
A thick coarse Mantle o'er her Shoulder's hung;
She gnash'd her Teeth, and her cold Fingers wrung.
A stinking Lake her craving Thirst supply'd;
From which a muddy Stream did silent glide,
Greedy she drank of the unwholesome Brook,
But still the more she drank, the more she shook.
When me the Fury saw, she rais'd her Head;
And Anger to her Paleness gave a Red.
Lost I had been, undone, had I not brought
Of Indian Cortex an inchanted Pot.
Thus arm'd with sacred Spells I forward pass,
And with the Magick Bark besmear her Face.
Dreadful she screek'd! and with one mighty Shake,
The Hag sunk down into the Neighb'ring Lake.
Th'unhappy Frogs perceiv'd the Fiend was come,
As soon the croaking Tribes forsook their Home:
And from the Pools to milder Banks repair,
The dreadful chilling Cold they could not bear
Their quiv'ring Lips confes'd an Angue there.
With equal Haste I quit the fatal Grot,
And safe retire; thanks to my Sov'reign Pot.
Had mournful Ovid been but here condemn'd,
His Tristibus more movingly he'd pen'd;
Gladly he wou'd have chang'd this miry Slough
For colder Pontus or the Scythian Snow.
The Goths were not so barbarous a Race
As the grim Rusticks of this motly Place;
Of Reason void, and Thought, whom Int'rest rules,
Yet will be Knaves tho' Nature meant them Fools.
A strange half-humane and ungainly Brood;
Their Speech uncouth, as are their Manners rude.
When they wou'd seem to speak, the Mortals roar
As loud as Waves contending with their Shoar.
Their widen'd Mouths into a Circle grow,
For all their Vowels are but A and O.
The Beasts have the same Language, and the Cow
After the Owner's Voice is taught to low.
It never yet cou'd be exactly stated
What Time o' Year this Ball was first created;
Some plead for Summer, but the Wise bethought 'em,
The Earth like other Fruits was ripe in Autumn.
While gayer Wits the vernal Bloom prefer,
Think this Nilotic World did first appear
In youthful Glory of the springing Year.
But this curs'd Place, and all the Marshes round,
A sort of Chaos, and unfinish'd Ground,
Were made in Winter, one may safely swear,
For Winter is the only Season here.
Of four prime Elements all Things below,
By various Mixtures were compos'd; but, now,
At least with us they are reduc'd to Two.
The daily Want of Fire our Chimnies mourn,
Cow-Dung and Turf may smoke, but never burn.
Water and Earth is all that we can boast,
The Air in Mists and dewy Streams is lost.
We live in Fogs, and in this Moory Sink,
When we are thought to breathe, we rather drink.
It's said at last, the World in Flames must die,
And this interr'd in its own Ashes lie;
If any Part shall then remain entire,
And be exempted from the common Fire,
Let Hills, Woods, Rocks, fill up the final Flame,
Secur'd by Neptune, This shall be the same.

FINIS