_London_, that vents of _false Ware_ so much Store,
In no _Ware_ deceives us more;
For Men, led by the _Colour_, and the Shape,
Like _Zeuxis' Bird_, fly to the painted Grape.
Some things do through our Judgment pass,
As through a _Multiplying Glass_:
And sometimes, if the _Object_ be too far,
We take a _falling Meteor_ for a _Star_.