Could’st thou resign the park and play, content, 210
  For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent,
  There might’st thou find some elegant retreat,
  Some hireling senator’s deserted seat;
  And stretch thy prospects o’er the smiling land,
  For less than rent the dungeons of the Strand;
  There prune thy walks, support thy drooping flowers,
  Direct thy rivulets, and twine thy bowers;
  And, while thy grounds a cheap repast afford,
  Despise the dainties of a venal lord: 
  There every bush with Nature’s music rings, 220
  There every breeze bears health upon its wings;
  On all thy hours Security shall smile,
  And bless thine evening walk and morning toil.

   Prepare for death, if here at night you roam,
  And sign your will before you sup from home. 
  Some fiery fop, with new commission vain,
  Who sleeps on brambles till he kills his man;
  Some frolic drunkard, reeling from a feast,
  Provokes a broil, and stabs you for a jest. 
  Yet e’en these heroes, mischievously gay, 230
  Lords of the street, and terrors of the way;
  Flush’d as they are with folly, youth, and wine,
  Their prudent insults to the poor confine;
  Afar they mark the flambeaux’s bright approach,
  And shun the shining train, and golden coach.

   In vain, these dangers past, your doors you close,
  And hope the balmy blessings of repose: 
  Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair,
  The midnight murderer bursts the faithless bar;
  Invades the sacred hour of silent rest, 240
  And leaves, unseen, a dagger in your breast.

   Scarce can our fields, such crowds at Tyburn die,
  With hemp the gallows and the fleet supply. 
  Propose your schemes, ye senatorian band! 
  Whose ways and means support the sinking land,
  Lest ropes be wanting in the tempting spring
  To rig another convoy for the king.[6]

   A single jail, in Alfred’s golden reign,
  Could half the nation’s criminals contain;
  Fair Justice then, without constraint adored, 250
  Held high the steady scale, but sheathed the sword;
  No spies were paid, no special juries known,
  Blest age! but, ah! how different from our own!

   Much could I add—­but see the boat at hand,
  The tide retiring, calls me from the land: 
  Farewell!—­When, youth, and health, and fortune spent
  Thou fliest for refuge to the wilds of Kent;
  And, tired like me with follies and with crimes,
  In angry numbers warn’st succeeding times,
  Then shall thy friend, nor thou refuse his aid, 260
  Still foe to vice, forsake his Cambrian shade;
  In Virtue’s cause once more exert his rage,
  Thy satire point, and animate thy page.

[Footnote 1:  ‘Thales:’  supposed to refer to Savage, who intended to retire to Wales about this time, and who accomplished his purpose soon after.]