A thousand Artists shew their cunning Pow'r,
To raise the Wonders of the Iv'ry Tow'r.
A thousand Maidens ply the purple Loom,
To weave the Bed, and deck the Regal Room;
'Till  confesses her exhausted Store,
That on her Coast the  is no more;
'Till from the  Isle, and  Coast,
The Mountains grieve their hopes of Marble lost;
And  Woods return their just Complaint,
Their Brood decay'd, and want of .