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Ye happy Fields! unknown to noise and strife, The kind rewarders of industrious life; Ye shady Woods! where once I us'd to rove, Alike indulgent to the Muse and love;

Ye murmuring Streams! that in meanders roll, The sweet composers of the pensive soul, Farewell.-The City calls me from your bow'rs: Farewell, amusing thoughts and peaceful hours!

TRIVIA:

OR, THE ART OF

WALKING THE STREETS OF LONDON.

IN THREE BOOKS.

Quo te, Mori, pedes? An, quo via ducit, in urbem?

VIRG.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE world, I believe, will take so little notice of me, that I need not take much of it. The critics may see, by this Poem, that I walk on foot, which probably may save me from their envy. I should be sorry to raise that passion in men whom I am so much obliged to, since they allow me an honour hitherto only shown to better writers,-that of denying me to be the author of my own works.

Gentlemen, if there be any thing in this Poem good enough to displease you, and if it be any advantage to you to ascribe it to some person of greater merit; I shall acquaint you, for your comfort, that, among many other obligations, I owe several hints of it to Dr. Swift; and if you will so far continue your favour as to write against it, I beg you to oblige me in accepting the following motto:

Non tu, in Triviis, indocte, solebas

Stridenti miserum stipula disperdere carmen?

TRIVIA.

BOOK I.

OF THE IMPLEMENTS FOR WALKING THE STREETS, AND SIGNS OF THE WEATHER.

THROUGH winter streets to steer your course aright,

How to walk clean by day, and safe by night,
How jostling crowds, with prudence to decline,
When to assert the wall, and when resign,
I sing: thou, Trivia! goddess, aid my song,
Through spacious streets conduct thy bard along;
By thee transported, I securely stray
Where winding alleys lead the doubtful way,
The silent court and opening square explore,
And long perplexing lanes untrod before.

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To pave thy realm, and smooth the broken ways,
Earth from her womb a flinty tribute pays;
For thee the sturdy paver thumps the ground,
Whilst every stroke his labouring lungs resound;
For thee the scavenger bids kennels glide
Within their bounds, and heaps of dirt subside.
My youthful bosom burns with thirst of fame,
From the great theme to build a glorious name,

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