In Moorfields dangling to the desart air.
Some village * * * * * *, who a wife’s fell frown,
A vixen wife with music has withstood,
Some blind Corelli oft may scrape unknown,
Some Arne, not guilty of an Opera’s blood
Th’ applause of listening Boxes to command,
Damnation’s pain and ruin to dispise;
To scatter crotchets o’er a fidling land,
And read their influence in a lady’s eyes,
Their lot forbade; nor circumscrib’d alone