On
leaving
Bath
.
The
Britons
,
in
their
Nature
shy
,
View
Strangers
with
a
distant
Eye
:
We
think
them
partial
and
severe
;
And
judge
their
Manners
by
their
Air
:
Are
undeceiv'd
by
Time
alone
;
Their
Value
rises
,
as
they're
known
.
Here
many
a
worthy
Mind
I
found
,
With
Sense
and
Taste
,
by
Virtue
crown'd
,
At
once
so
truly
good
and
great
,
They
knew
to
bear
a
prosp'rous
State
.
Few
take
from
noble
Blood
Pretence
To
act
or
look
with
Insolence
:
Veins
,
with
the
richest
Purple
dy'd
,
But
seldom
swell
the
Heart
with
Pride
,
So
,
tho'
the
River-Gods
,
from
high
,
With
plenteous
Urns
the
Streams
supply
,
Which
still
enlarge
,
as
they
descend
,
Roll
down
,
and
in
the
Ocean
end
,
Thro'
Ages
pour'd
;
yet
,
to
our
Eyes
,
Old
Ocean
is
too
great
to
rise
.
The
gen'rous
Treatment
I
have
met
,
Hath
run
me
deep
in
Albion's
Debt
:
And
,
could
my
artless
Lines
impart
The
grateful
Dictates
of
my
Heart
,
Latest
Posterity
should
know
The
Sense
I
have
of
what
I
owe
.
Dear
Bath
,
a
long
,
a
last
Adieu
!
Since
I
no
more
shall
visit
you
;
Nor
fix'd
by
Choice
,
but
barr'd
by
Fate
,
From
a
Felicity
so
great
.
O
may
thy
Waters
ever
be
Healthful
to
others
,
as
to
me
!
Had
Ovid
,
with
prophetic
View
,
Beheld
the
Wonders
wrought
by
you
,
Medea's
Arts
he
might
have
spar'd
,
And
Life
by
thee
alone
repair'd
.