But, Sunday pass'd, what numbers flourish then,

What wond'rous labours of the press and pen!

Diurnal most, some thrice each week affords,

Some only once—O avarice of words!

When thousand starving minds such manna seek[18],

To drop the precious food but once a week.

Endless it were to sing the powers of all,

100

Their names, their numbers; how they rise and fall:

Like baneful herbs the gazer's eye they seize,