But hark! the Doors on jarring Hinges turn,

All enter in, and the blest Scene's begun;

A thousand Lights their livid Flames display,

Pour forth their Blaze, and form a mimick Day:

Sudden a motley Mixture fills the Place,

And Footmen shine as lordly as his Grace;

To see the sad Effect and Power of Change,

Ladies turn'd Men, in Breeches freely range:

Young smooth-chin'd Beaux turn Priests and Fryars,

And Nun's chaste Habits hide our Country 'Squires.

Belles, Beaux, and Sharpers here together play,

And Wives throw their good Spouses Wealth away;

And when their Cash runs low, and Fate runs cross,

They then Cornute 'em to retrieve their Loss.

Dice and Intrigue so mutually are blended,

That one begins as soon as t'other's ended:

A City Heiress blooming, rich, and fair,

Picks up the Cards and Counters with great Care;

Against her fate a smooth young Baron,

Wit he had none, Beauty he had his share on,

A soft clear Skin, a dapper Neck and Waist,

In all Things suited to the modern Taste;

And most polite, like all our modish Brood,

That is, a very Fool, who's very leud:

He ogles Miss, she squints, and turns aside,

Nor can her Mask her rising Blushes hide;

At last (as Bargains here are quickly made)

She yeilds to be Caress'd, tho' still afraid;

She cries, a private Room's for them most fit,

For Reputation is the Glory of a Cit;

This only is the Place, where in a Trice,

Some Angel steals the Wounds of friendly Vice;

The Nymph finds a Relief for all her Pains,

And the lost Maidenhead's restor'd again.

But who is he in Bower close confin'd,

With a kind Fair t' unbend his troubled Mind,

Sure by his Air, his Beauty, and his Grace,

It Phoebus is, or some of heavenly Race.

A petty Courtier, of small Estate and Sense,

Stood hearkning by, and cry'd it was the P——ce.

Your Pardon, Sir, I knew it not before,

For my Mistake depended on his Whore,

One had Latona to'ther has L——r.

Next to the Grotto let us bend our Eye,

The Grotto, Patron of Iniquity,

Speak O ye Trees with kind refreshing Shade,

How many Whores have at your Roots been made;

Alas; how small the Number to what now,

This one, this happy Night, alone will shew

So many, that each conscious Dryad flees,

Lest she too should be ravish'd thro' the Trees.

Next rattling Dice invite th' attentive Ear,

Lords loudly laugh, as loud the Bullies swear:

The Country Knight o'th' Shire sells his Estate,

And here with Heart intrepid meets his Fate;

So they withdrew to quench their glowing Flame,

And to preserve the Honour of her Name;

For oh! sad Fate as they ascend the Stairs,

At the Room Door her good Mamma appears,

Soon as she spies her Child with Looks demure,

She charges her to keep her Vessel pure:

Miss pertly answers to avoid her Doom,