What various Arts attempts the am'rous Swain,

To force the Fair, or her Consent to gain—

Now Balls, now Masquerades his Care employ,

And Play and Park alternately give Joy—

Industrious H——gg——r, whose magick Brains

Still in their Shell the Recipe retains

Like some good Midwife brings the Plot to light

And helps the lab'ring Swain to Celia's Sight;

For this his Eunuchs in high Buskins tread—

And chaunt harmonious Lays for this,—and Bread;

For this the Assembly's fix'd; and the huge Dome

Swells with the Lady's Vows, when the Stake's gone.—

For this he forms the vicious Masquerade,

Where Damsels may securely drive their Trade,

For which the Salesman, Chandler, Chairmen loudly pray,

And Pickpockets too, hail the joyful Day—

But now what Tongue can praise the mighty Worth,

Who to Ridotto gave an English Birth;

To him let every Templar bend the Knee,

Receive a Ticket, and give up the Fee:

Let Drury-Lane eternal Columns raise,

And every wanton Wife resound his Praise;

Let Courtiers with implicit Faith obey,

And to their grand Procurer Homage pay.

No more shall Duchesses to Bath repair,

Or fly to Tunbridge to procure an Heir;

Spring-Gardens can supply their every Want,

For here whate'er they ask the Swain wil grant,

And future Lords (if they'll confess the right)

Shall owe their Being to this blessed Night;

Hence future Wickedness shall take its Rise,

(For Masquerade to this is paultry Vice)

An Æra of new Crimes shall hence begin,

And H——gg——r chief Devil be of Sin;

No more shall Ugliness be his Disgrace,

His Head mends all the Frailties of his Face;

When Masques and Balls to their Conclusion drew,

To this his last Resort the Hero flew;

So by degrees the Errant Knights of old

To Glory rose, and by Degrees grew bold;

A while content the common Road they trod,

'Till some great Act at last confess the God.

Now Painters work,—and dine, that starv'd before,

And Tallymen supply each needy Whore—

Fam'd Covent-Garden droops with mournful Look,

Nor can St. James's her great Rival brook:

Each Duck and D——ss, quacks to different Tunes,

One claps her Wings for Love, the other swoons;

Each Vintner storms and swears he is undone,

Vollies of Oaths speak loud the Drawer's Moan;

Porter who us'd to search for needful Girls,

Now sucks his Fingers, or his Apron twirls,

Bemoans his Loss of Business, and with Sighs,

In Box imprison'd lays the useless Dice.

Spring-Garden now alone does all invite

The Cit, the Wit, the Rake, the Fool, the Knight:

No Lady, that can pawn her Coat or Gown,

Will rest 'till she has laid the Money down:

Each Clerk will to the Joints his Fingers work,

And Counsellors find out some