Vast Numbers throng'd the fruitful Hive

Thus every Part was full of Vice, Yet the whole Mass a Paradise; Flatter'd in Peace, and fear'd in Wars, They were th' Esteem of Foreigners, And lavish of their Wealth and Lives, The Balance of all other Hives.

Luxury Employ'd a Million of the Poor, And odious Pride a Million more; Envy it self, and Vanity, Were Ministers of Industry; Their darling Folly, Fickleness,

Thus Vice nurs'd Ingenuity, Which join'd with Time and Industry, Had carry'd Life's Conveniences, It's real Pleasures, Comforts, Ease, To such a Height, the very Poor Liv'd better than the Rich before.

They put off hearings wilfully, To finger the refreshing fee.

The worst of all the Multitude Did something for the Common Good.

Then leave Complaints: Fools only strive To make a Great an Honest Hive. T'enjoy the World's Conveniences, Be fam'd in War, yet live in Ease, Without great Vices, is a vain Eutopia seated in the Brain.