There you may feast your wandring eyes enough,
There you may buy a box to hold your snuff.
No fair no market underneath the skies
That can afford you more varieties;
There you may see some hundreds slide in skeets,
And beaten paths like to the city streets.
There were Dutch whimsies turned swiftly round
Faster then horses run on level ground.
The like to this I now to you do tell
No former age could ever parallel;