Here Seamstresses and Maids together vie,

And the spruce 'Prentice shines in Sword and Tye:

Bandy'd in Lace the City Dame appears,

Her Hair genteelly frizzled round her Ears;

Her Gown with Tyrian Dyes most richly stain'd,

Glitt'ring with Orient Pearl from Orphans gain'd.

My Lord, to oblige his Spouse, takes Tickets three,

Crys, one's for you my Love, and one for me,

The third dispose as you shall best adjudge,

Shew where you're pleas'd, and where you owe a Grudge:

Madam elate, thinks she'll be kind to Betty,

To hide the Slips she made with Spark i'th' City:

But Stallion Tom, who well knew how to scold,

And by his Mistress's Favour grown too bold,

Swears if he has it not, he will reveal,

And to his Master tell a dismal Tale;

Madam, reluctant, gives him up the Paper;

He at her Folly laughs, and cuts a Caper.

Sylvia, a Lady, kept by twenty Beaux,

Who never yet could brook the Marriage Noose,

By each a Ticket offer'd, scorns 'em all,

In hopes some Fool at last will Victim fall,

And, kindly offer Treat and Ticket too,

Which to her Charms she thinks most justly due;

At last a brisk young Templar full of Fire,

Whom Writs with Money, Wine with Love inspire,

Address'd the Dame, she yeilds his glowing Charms,

And for a Ticket flies into his Arms:

So every dapper Fop and brawny Rake

Will Tickets to their Ladies Presents make;

To Sin, the only certain Dedication,

To every gentle Mistress in the Nation,

From Suburb Whore, to ranting Dame of Fashion;

For none's so niece as to refuse the Suit,

But grasps the Tree tho' 'tis forbidden Fruit.

Near where the Thames in pleasant Windings runs,

Near where the famous Glass-house fiercely burns,

(Which to the Love of poor desponding Swains,

An Emblem terrible, but just retains.)

Near where fam'd Vaux was to have fled,

With lighted Match, soon as he'd done the Deed;

Whence some pretend to say by second Sight,

That it foreshew'd the Fate attends this Night,

'Cause here the Fair will many Matches light.

Spring-Gardens lie shaded with verdant Trees,

That nod their reverend Heads at every Breeze;

Embassadors like Turks hence send Express,

And Ministers of State like Devils dress—

Should some wild Indian see the various Scene,

He'd swear all Nations of the Earth do here convene,

And take for quite reverse this medley Farce,

Think Strumpers Saints, or catstick'd Beau a Mars.

But now the Dancers nimble Feet go round,

And with just Measures beat the passive Ground,

Each one inclines to different Delights—

Musick the Fair, Sweetmeats the Beau invite;

The Templar wisely does his Care enroll,

Pockets the Pheasant, and eats up the Fowls

Nor will return to join the giddy Rout,

'Till he has eat and drank his Guinea out.

Now Dancing fires the Nymph to softer Joys;

The Musick's dull, the Wine and Sweetmeat cloys;

Strephon streight takes the Hint, withdraws a-while,

By soft Endearments does her Grief beguile;

Soon they return more vig'rous than before,

Do what they will, she cannot be a Whore.

For Mahomet may dream of heavenly Stews,