Thou the faint beams of Reason's scattered light Dost like a burning glass unite; Dost multiply the feeble heat, And fortify the strength, till thou dost bright And noble fires beget.

Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks, I see The monster London laugh at me; I should at thee too, foolish city, If it were fit to laugh at misery. But thy estate, I pity.

Let but thy wicked men from out thee go, And the fools that crowd thee so, - Even thou, who dost thy millions boast, A village less than Islington wilt grow, A solitude almost.

Nam neque divitibus contingunt gaudia solis, Nec vixit male, qui natus moriensque fefellit.

God made not pleasures only for the rich, Nor have those men without their share too lived, Who both in life and death the world deceived.

This seems a strange sentence thus literally translated, and looks as if it were in vindication of the men of business (for who else can deceive the world?) whereas it is in commendation of those who live and die so obscurely, that the world takes no notice of them. This Horace calls deceiving the world, and in another place uses the same phrase.

Secretum iter et fallentis semita vitae. The secret tracks of the deceiving life.

It is very elegant in Latin, but our English word will hardly bear up to that sense, and therefore Mr. Broome translates it very well: