Two crystal streams the wealthy city scower;
Whose currents, parted into many a rill, Infinite gardens, never bare of flower, Or stript of leaf, with grateful murmur fill:
'Tis said the perfumed waters are of power (So plenteously they swell) to turn a mill;
And that whoever wander through the streets, Scent, issuing from each home, a cloud of sweets.