Thames, the most lov’d of all the Ocean’s sons,
By his old sire, to his embraces runs;
Hasty to pay his tribute to the sea,
Like mortal life to meet eternity,
Though with those streams he no resemblance hold,
Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold,
His genuine and less guilty wealth t’ explore,
Search not his bottoms, but survey his shore,
O’er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing,
And hatches plenty for the ensuing spring;