And check’d each growing virtue of the breast.
Full many a rural lass in Britain’s land
The vile unwarrantable brothels hold;
Full many a town-bred damsel walks the Strand,
And trucks her beauty for a piece of gold.
Some ghost of Jefferies will this floor parade,
Some daring Pettifogger, stern of brow,
Who might have done due honour to the spade,
Whirl’d the tough flail, or grasp’d the peaceful plough.
This upstart thing some useful trade to learn,