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11

As I was taking this my View,
Like Country Hodge at Barthol'mew,
Observing here a Temple Fop,
And there a Cuckold in his Shop;
A Cutler fixing up Sword Hilts,
Informers dogging Punks and Jilts;
A Gold-smith telling o'er his Cash,
A Pipping-monger selling Trash;
One Sempstress in her Hut a stitching,
Another just strol'd out a B---ing;
A Country Ruddy-fac'd Attorney
Just lighted from his dirty Journey,
In stubborn Coat of Drab-de-berry,
And wrinkl'd Boots all over Miry;
A huge long Sword, with which he Vapours,
In's Hand a Wallet stuff'd with Papers,
To some old Inn of Chanc'ry trudging,
In which he keeps a dusty Lodging,
Lock'd closely up from Term to Term,
Where Fleas, instead of Clients, swarm,

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And Cobweb-Emblems of his Trade,
Hang full of Pris'ners o'er his Head.