A compleat and Humorous account Of all the Remarkable Clubs and Societies in the Cities of London and Westminster, From the R---l-S---y down to the Lumber-Troop, &c. Their Original with Characters of the most noted Members, containing great Variety of entertaining Discourses, Frolicks, and Adventures of the principal Managers and Members, a Work of great Use and Curiosity. Compil'd from the original Papers of a Gentleman who frequented those Places upwards of Twenty Years. The seventh edition [by Edward Ward]

	A compleat and Humorous account Of all the Remarkable Clubs and Societies in the Cities of London and Westminster, From the R---l-S---y down to the Lumber-Troop, &c. Their Original with Characters of the most noted Members, containing great Variety of entertaining Discourses, Frolicks, and Adventures of the principal Managers and Members, a Work of great Use and Curiosity. Compil'd from the original Papers of a Gentleman who frequented those Places upwards of Twenty Years. The seventh edition [by Edward Ward]

THE HISTORY OF CLUBS, &c.

[_]

Square brackets denote editorial insertions or emendations.

The VERTUOSO's Club.

[So have I heard, when wealthy Dons]

So have I heard, when wealthy Dons
Descend among Apollo's Sons
The Rhiming Crew turn pert Repeaters
Of Panegyrics, Songs, and Satyrs;
And make themselves diverting Asses
To pleasure Fools o'th' upper Classis,
Who only recompence their Wit,
With some poor parsimonious Treat:
And for their merry Puns and Strains,
Reward their Guts instead of Brains.
Who therefore would exhaust his Store
Among the Rich? to still be poor,
And barter Wit, which few possess,
For that which is in Value less?

[The clumsy Mason the Foundation lays]

The clumsy Mason the Foundation lays,
But he that crowns the Work deserves the Praise:
Hopkins and Sternhold did much Fame acquire,
Till Tate and Brady tun'd the Heavenly Lyre:
Dryden and Shadwell held the Bays for Years,
But both resign the Crown when Garth appears;
The greatest Hero must his Helmet vail,
When one more mighty turns the ticklish Scale:
The glitt'ring Stars are by the Moon outshone,
And she submits her Glory to the Sun;
Nor would his Lustre dazzle human Eyes,
Should o'er his Head a greater Light arise.

[So have I seen an Antiquary]

So have I seen an Antiquary,
A Bag of rusty Trinkets carry:
Old canker'd Coins, defac'd by Time,
With scarce one Letter round the Rim:
Stamp'd with a Something like a Head,
With Eyes defac'd, and Nose decay'd,
Suppos'd the Phiz of some old Hero,
Augustus, Julius, Otho, Nero,
Or of some strange forgotten Prince,
That play'd the Tyrant Ages since;
Yet when he shews his mouldy Baubles,
On Tavern, or an Ale-house Tables,
Among old-fashion'd Fools, who, like
Himself, are pleas'd with Things antique:
The Knot of Coxcombs all agree
To praise the Dross, as well as he;
So joining in Opinion, place
High Value on the rusty Face.

Thus Vertuoso's make a Pother
About their Whims, to please each other;
And wond'rous Maggots will advance ye,
That have no Being but in Fancy.

[Apollo's Sons are Poets born]

Apollo's Sons are Poets born,
Tho' finish'd in the Schools,
And love their Wit should shew their Scorn,
To those who deem 'em Fools.

Philosophers think Poets mad,
And Poetry but Froth,
In fruitless Gingle finely clad,
To please and tickle Youth.

But Poets know Philosophers
More empty Fables feign,
Since Nature, whilst the World is hers,
Still makes their Searches vain.

For tho' they're grave and wise in Dress,
And boast their Studies past,
Yet, Sceptic like, they must confess,
They nothing know at last.

Then why may'nt Poets, like the rest,
Help carry on the Cheat,
Since all the World is but a Jest,
And Knowledge but Conceit?

[Thus the grave Searchers into Nature]

Thus the grave Searchers into Nature,
So skill'd in Earth, Air, Fire, and Water,
That no strange Earthquake could arise,
Or pointed Lightning gild the Skies;
No Hurricane its Force expand,
Or Inundation drown the Land,
But they could give good Reason why,
The Winds or Waters rose so high.

Yet these more wise, when o'er the Battle,
Than 'Cartes, Lock, or Aristotle.
Could not secure their Reputation,
Against that Tyrant Defamation,
But dwindled from a Club so noted
For many Arts they had promoted,
Into a quaint penurious Set
Who drink by Rule, and eat by Weight.
So antient Rome, who once was fam'd,
For all the Arts that could be nam'd,
Is now become a Den of Monks
Fat Fryers, and religious Punks;
Which shews that no Community,
Public or private, long can be,
From fatal Revolution free.

Of the Knights of the Order of the Golden-Fleece.

[So buxom Gossips, when they meet]

So buxom Gossips, when they meet,
To give themselves a private Treat,
And at some Pastry-Cooks regale,
With Pidgeon-Pies, and Bottl'd-Ale,
At first, put on their modest Airs,
Like Nuns just stepping to their Pray'rs;

But, when the Glass has flown about,
Crown'd with a Dram, or mixt with Stout,
Then pious Dame, with bawdy Jest,
Revives the Genius of the rest;
Who casting off their starch'd Disguise,
Shew by their Tongues, as well as Eyes,
That the same vicious Dregs of Nature,
Still lurk in e'ery human Creature;
Only they're stifled here and there,
By Interest, or Religious Fear:
But when good Liquor interposes,
God Bacchus is too hard for Moses.

[Thus Fools, who credit Planet-Gazers]

Thus Fools, who credit Planet-Gazers,
And think the Knaves wise Albumazars,
Conform their Lives to what they tell 'em,
And then believe the Stars compel 'em.

[In faithless Times, when Crowds miscarry]

In faithless Times, when Crowds miscarry,
'Tis good for wise Men to be wary,
The tim'rous Hare, that's oft pursu'd,
Delights to harbour near a Wood.
Then who can blame the Knights for chusing,
So fit a Place for rendezvousing?

[Let Honour still be due to Jason's Knights]

Let Honour still be due to Jason's Knights,
Tho' Tom-Turds-Arms the Golden Fleece beshites.

['Tis strange! that Men with Reason blest]

'Tis strange! that Men with Reason blest,
Should make themselves a common Jest;
And meet to stigmatize each other,
That e'ery Fool may have his Brother.
What Mortal, that has Sense or Thought,
Would strip Jack Adams of his Coat?
Or who would be by Friends decoy'd,
To wear a Badge he would avoid?
And fondly to the World proclaim,
His Weakness by some Apish Name.
For who can hear a Man saluted,
By th'Title of Sir Crazy Hothead?
And not conceive the silly Ass,
Deserves the Name he does embrace;
And that 'tis well adapted to him,
That others may the better know him.
He therefore that is proud to take
A foolish Name, for Folly's Sake,
Shews plainly by his Indiscretion,
He well deserves the Apellation.

Thus as the punish'd Child, in Course
Must kiss the Rod. to please the Nurse,
So the dubb'd Ass, t'oblige his Mates,
Oft hugs in Jest, the Name he hates.

Of the NO-NOSE Club.

[Fall'n Palates now, and Bridge-less Noses]

Fall'n Palates now, and Bridge-less Noses,
Eat up by crude Mercurial Doses;
And Tongues impair'd by Salivations,
Or half devour'd by Ulcerations,
After each other drank their Glasses,
And never keck'd or made wry Faces
As if they all knew very well,
Which Way their yielding Noses fell;
Had therefore each the same Protection,
Against Venereal Infection;
And valu'd not what pocky Venom,
Could tinge the Glass that pass'd between 'em:
But Noseless Sir, and Snuffling Madam,
Since all had been alike at Hadem,
Took Care, 'tis true, to drink all up.
But thought it Scorn to rinse the Cup.
So Night-Men, who with Tubs and Pails,
Carry off the Drippings of our Tails
With Hands unwash'd, in sultry Weather,
Will sweat, eat, drink, and stink together.

[One Nose, among such Noseless Guest]

One Nose, among such Noseless Guest,
Was only fit to be a Jest;
And look'd with its aspiring Bridge,
But like a House with lofty Ridge.
Built by some whimsical old Fop,
Amidst a Street that's flat at Top.

A wise Man hem'd about with Fools,
Must bear the Blockheads Ridicules:
The modest Dame, with Whores surrounded,
Must be by Impudence confounded:
The Female Saint in Querpo Hood,
Will bait the Lass with high Commode.
Why then should not one mighty Nose,
With Patience hear the Scoffs of those,
Who hate to see a Nose appear,
Because themselves have none to wear:
Since he is always made the Jest,
That is the most unlike the rest?

[Mourn all ye No Nos'd Bullies of the Age]

Mourn all ye No Nos'd Bullies of the Age,
Whose batter'd Snouts the World's Decay presage,
And shew, whilst living, how the fairest Face,
Adorn'd by Nature with each charming Grace,
Tho' a chaste Stranger to the Joys of Love,
Must rot when underground, like yours above;
And that fair Bridge which in some Form does grow,
Beneath whose Gristly Arch such Juices stow,
When dead, like your fall'n Noses e'er you die,
Must tumble, and in flat Disorder lie.

Mourn ev'ry Punk, whose ruin'd Front proclaims,
How much she's suffer'd by Venereal Flames;
Who, by her Dents and Scars, deters the Young
From Love's bewitching Sports, for which they long.

Weep all who dare, without a Mask disclose
A sinking Bridge, or Face without a Nose.
Let Grief alone your Salvation prove,
Till flowing Eyes your Malady remove,
And quite discharge the Pocky Dregs of Love.

Mourn for the Loss of such a generous Friend,
Whose lofty Nose an humble Snout disdain'd,
But tho' of Roman Height, would stoop so low,
As to sooth those who ne'er a Nose could show.
So a kind beauteous Dutchess, once admir'd
By all that saw her, and by all desir'd,

To shew the gen'rous Humour of her Grace,
Maintain'd a Player with a Pancake-Face,
As if she had a strong Desire to kiss
The Monkey, till her Nose was flat as his.
Who then can Crumpton, for his Fancy, blame,
Since Birth and Honour once pursu'd the same?

O weep! and flux out your lamenting Eyes,
Till flowing Grief each hidden Ulcer dries,
And your contagious Tears corrode your Cheeks,
As Merc'ry does their Mouths who spit three Weeks:
For sure no Noseless Club could ever find,
One single Nose so bountiful and kind.
But now, alas! he's sunk into the Deep,
Where neither Kings, or Slaves, a Nose can keep,
But where proud Beauties, strutting Beaus and all,
Must soon into the Noseless Fashion fall.
Thither your Friend, in Complaisance, is gone,
To have his Nose, like yours, reduc'd to none;
For Worms to Beauty, do as fatal prove
Below, as Pox and Physic do above.

Of the FARTING Club.

[Since he who by deceitful Arts]

Since he who by deceitful Arts,
With Arms instead of Arse lets Farts,
Shall be despis'd, because his Fun,
Can't fairly call the Sound its own.
Then what must he deserves who steals
His Wit, and treads on others Heels?
Whose busy Tongue makes public Use
Of what his Brains could ne'er produce.

[We read that Tubal Cain first found]

We read that Tubal Cain first found
In Cockle-Shells, sweet Musicks Sound;
And that the rural Nymphs and Swains,
Tun'd Reeds and Oat Straws on their Plains:
But sure no mortal Flesh and Blood,
E'er heard before, since Noah's Flood,
Of Musick fizzl'd from a Gut,
Extended to the windy Scut.
Well may so many Birds excreet
The Dregs and Fesis of their Wit,
In beasty Songs, and bawdy Verses,
Since Men play Tunes upon their Arses.
E'n let such Heads and Tails unite,
That one may sing what th'others Write;
For swelling Rhimes are often found,
Like nauseous Farts, meer empty Sound.

Of the Man-Killing Club.

[Bullies like Whores, tho' ne'er so wicked grown]

Bullies like Whores, tho' ne'er so wicked grown,
Are always loyal to the Church and Crown:
The Reason's plain, because alike they dread
Hanging whilst living, Damning when they're dead.
Therefore in those two Pow'rs they put their Troth,
To be more safe, in Time of Need, 'twixt both.
So Bawds speak well of Heav'n, thro' Fear of Hell,
And cover impious Lives with Virtue's Veil.

[The Mariner is aw'd the most]

The Mariner is aw'd the most
By Sands, in which at last he's lost,
Shovel, that triumph'd o'er the Main,
Dreaded the Rock that prov'd his Bane,
Who, therefore, of the wiser Few,
In Argument, can plainly shew,
Whether we've Power or not to shun
Those Shelves, we fear to split upon.

[No ancient Sodom or Gomorrah]

No ancient Sodom or Gomorrah,
From whence the Priests such Stories borrow,
Or Rome, with all her valiant Sons,
Who dealt so much in Blood and Wounds
And did so many Quarrels make,
As if they Fought for Fighting's Sake,
Could ever boast a Club of Ruffians,
Like our Man-Killing Raggamuffins:
Such Blust'ring, Swearing, Daring Knaves,
They slew their Men by Wholes and Ha'ves,
Proposing little other Gains,
Than Goal and Halter for their Pains,
The true Desert of all such Fellows,
Who hazard Life, to win a Gallows,
When distant Armies want their Aid,
Where they may barter Blood for Bread;
And rise, by Dint of Hurly-Burly,
To be as great as Captain Surly.
But 'tis true, that Bully Varlets,
Who fight at home, for Bawds and Harlots,
Prove Cowards, fearful to be kill'd,
Where bleeding Troops manure the Field.

So cow'rdly Dunghill-Cocks defy
Their Rivals, when their Hens are nigh:
But for more nobler Wars unfit;
They fly the Battles of the Pit.

The SURLY Club.

[Since such wild brutish Herds we see]

Since such wild brutish Herds we see,
Will have their Acts of Charity;
And, even Rogues, that dread the Gallows,
Have Pity on their starving Fellows,
'Tis strange that those, so far exceeding
In Riches, Grace, and better Breeding,
Should be so slack, amidst their Store,
In Deeds of Mercy to the Poor.

[Therefore, since Orators, who wear]

Therefore, since Orators, who wear
Their proud Distinctions at the Bar,
Will condescend to foul their Mouths,
With vile Reproaches and Untruths,
To blacken and to lessen such,
Who've said, perhaps, a Word too much.
Then well may such unthinking Vermin,
As Porters, Watermen, and Carmen,
Asperse each other with their Tongues,
To exercise their baser Lungs.

The Atheistical Club.

[So have I heard a Knot of Fellows]

So have I heard a Knot of Fellows,
O'er brimming Flagons in an Alehouse
Accuse the Conduct of the State,
And rail at Men they're taught to hate;
But when their Talk has giv'n Offence,
To Sitters by of better Sense,
And once they're smartly taken up,
They eat their Words, and drink their Cup;
Blush that they nothing have to say,
When thus oppos'd, but rising pay,
And sneak, like burnt-tail'd Dogs, away.

[Thus Libertines, to Vice resign'd]

Thus Libertines, to Vice resign'd,
Avers'd to be by Laws confin'd,
Disdaining Virtue's sober Rules,
Are only fit to govern Fools,
When met together in a Body,
Each strives to be the greatest Noddy,
And to excel his impious Brother,
In some new Wickedness or other;
Because he fears to be their Jest,
If more a Coward than the rest.

So silly Children met to sport,
Will wade and trample thro' the Dirt,
And spite of Parents angry Threats,
Will follow their unlucky Mates;
Lest counted Dastards at their Play,
By those who lead the Miry Way.

Yet Athiests, though, when o'er their Wine,
They laugh and scoff at Things divine,
And fear no Punishment of Evil,
Because he never saw the Devil;

Scarce one durst tarry in a Room
That's dark, for fear the Fiend shou'd come:
Or cross a Church-yard in the Night,
Lest met by some infernal Sprite:
Which plainly shews they've not the Heart,
To stand by what they dare assert.

So cow'rdly Bullies boast and rattle,
As if they fear'd no bloody Battle;
But skulk like Dastards, and are shy
Of facing Dangers they defy,
Because they find they are not nigh.

The Club of Ugly-Faces.

[Since British Ladies, skill'd in Features]

Since British Ladies, skill'd in Features,
Admire Dutch Dogs for handsome Creatures:
And Men oft leave their beauteous Spouses,
For nauseous Punks, and dowdy Blouzes:
Why not great Fiddles please your Maids,
For wearing strange prepost'rous Heads?
Or Barber's Block be priz'd for having
A Phiz to humour Fools while shaving?
For aukward Things effect the Eyes
The most, by giving new Surprize.

That makes so many handsome Lasses,
Chuse empty Beaus with ugly Faces,
As some do Apes for old Grimaces.

[Should true Proportion ev'ry Mortal grace]

Should true Proportion ev'ry Mortal grace,
And Semetry be seen in ev'ry Face:
Beauty no longer would be thought divine,
Nor would its Charms with half the Lustre shine:
No courtly Dame a killing Look could boast,
If once the Foils of Homeliness were lost.
The dusky Sky sets off the Silver Moon,
And neighbouring Clouds adds Blushes to the Sun:
So Ugly Faces make the Fair seem bright,
And give them Pow'r to humane Love excite,
As Darkness makes the Persians worship Light.

Therefore 'tis fit the Blare or Goggle Ey'd,
Should get his Likeness on his Shipton Bride,
And that the mighty Nose, enrich'd with Wines,
Which, like a glowing Lump of Coral shines,

Should on some drunken Bride's pimgenet Face,
For the next Age beget a monst'rous Race;
That Beauty, when with homely Looks compar'd,
May be for ever honour'd with Regard,
And when she grants what Man with Joy receives,
Be doubly blest for those Delights she gives.

But should one Level run thro' human Race,
And neither Sex could shew a homely Face,
Beauty would lose its Power, Love decline,
No distant Spare for Wife or Mistress pine,
Or make a Diff'rence 'twixt his own or mine.

Therefore let Ugly-Faces still unite,
And get their Likeness, not in Love, but Spite,
That ev'ry Slave may have his homely Mate,
Whilst Beauty crowns the Actions of the Great.

The Split-Farthing Club.

[Thus talk as if they meant to be]

Thus talk as if they meant to be
Profuse in Works of Charity,
And that the Poor should be befriended,
By pious Gifts they ne'er intended;
For if one Bag of drossy Wealth,
Wou'd bribe off Death, and purchase Health,
They'd rather hazard Life and Soul,
To keep Possession of the Whole,
To the last Hour, than give a Part,
For th'needful Help of Men of Art.

What Wretches therefere can comply
To give the Poor, what they deny
Themselves, in such Extremity?

[Tho' Money is the Root of Evil]

Tho' Money is the Root of Evil,
And leads so many to the Devil,
Who do what's infamous to get it,
And rend whole Kingdoms to come at it;
Yet when by Fortune they have gain'd
More Wealth than they know how to spend,
'Tis strange they still shou'd rob the Spittle,
To heap up what they use so little:
But yet we see that cursed Itch
Of growing so profusely Rich,
Infects the most of human Race,
And makes the greater Number base:
The Lord, the Trader, and the Peasant,
Are all corrupted with a Spice on't:
The very Priests that rail at Gold,
And those that lend for double Fold,
Cannot forbear to hug the Darling,
But hoard it with its Brother Sterling,
Pursue, improve it, and adore it,
Nay, even preach against it for it.

So the pert Damsel, fair of Feature,
To cover her Intrigues the better,
Will rail at Strumpets, when she knows
That she herself is one of those.

Therefore since all are Money-Lovers,
From Heroes down to Smithfield Drovers;
And most turn Knaves, when once they see
A gainful Opportunity;
Why should the Miser be so blam'd,
And for his large Extortion damn'd,
Since all Men who have rais'd their Fortune,
By subtle Frauds behind the Curtain,
When once they're Rich, they grow morose,
Proud, cruel, base, and covetous?

So Statesmen that surround a Throne,
When once to Rich and Wealthy grown,
The greater Pow'r they still possess,
The more they injure and oppress;
Which plainly shews, that all Men wou'd
Be haughty Tyrants if they cou'd.

The Club of Broken Shopkeepers.

[So wanton Wives that prove unjust]

So wanton Wives that prove unjust,
To satiate their unbridled Lust,
Find always something to excuse
The shameful Liberties they use;
And on their Spouse's Failings charge
The Reasons why they love at large:
Thus do their Husbands double Wrong,
Not only with the Tail, but Tongue;
And to extenuate their Shame,
Make those they injure bear the Blame.

[Who would not rather chuse to serve]

Who would not rather chuse to serve
His Country, than to live and starve,
Confin'd to such an odious Place,
Where nothing prospers but Disgrace?
If Dirt, and want of Liberty,
Bad Liquor, and worse Company,
A sorry, base, unactive Life,
The Taunts of each proud Tapster's Wife,
Damn'd stinking Air, and miry Streets,
Buggs, lousy Rags, and nasty Sheets,
Are Comforts that can ease the Weight
Of those that prove Unfortunate,
Then well might Debtors fly the Teaze
Of Business, to enjoy their Ease:
And fond of such a happy Place,
There sot and dream away their Days:
But since they're sure to meet the Curse
Of making their Misfortunes worse,
By spending first their small Remains,
Then starving thro' Neglect of Pains,
'Till by an idle Habit made
Unfit for Labour or for Trade,
Designing, treacherous, and unjust,
Too knavish for the World to trust;
Fit only to frequent an Alehouse,
Or do Things worthy of a Gallows;
By Foes despis'd, by Friends forsaken,
In Dread of being surpriz'd and taken,
That a close starving Gaol may be
The End of all their Misery.
Who then, that is not quite bereft
Of Sense, and to his Follies left,
When once he finds himself decline,
Would not his whole Remains resign
To those of whom he owes the same,
And so preserve an honest Name,

Much rather than by Night to carry,
His Goods to such a Sanctuary,
And then o'er Ale in Clouds of Smoak,
Blown from their Pipes of Oronoke,
Sot away idly what they ought
To pay, and not conceal a Groat?
But those who once have run astray,
Still chuse some strange unlucky Way,
That leads on to their Undoing,
As if predestin'd to their Ruin.

The Man-Hunters Club.

[How wild is Youth! How wicked and prophane]

How wild is Youth! How wicked and prophane,
When savage Nature only governs Man!
And unreform'd by Education, steers:
How base to others! To himself unjust;
Mad in his Cups, and Daring in his Lust;
Bold, stubborn, haughty, insolent, and pert,
Slighting to Age, and scoffing to Desert:
Wise in Opinion, handsome in Conceit;
Rash in his Judgment, foolish in his Wit;
Void of all Care, and destitute of Grace,
Vain in his Air, fantastick in his Dress:
In Talk, contentious, when provok'd, a Bear,
Fickle in Love, a Tyrant to the Fair:
Hot in Pursuit of all his fond Desires,
Makes vig'rous Onsets, tho' he quickly tires:
Esteems no Merit, but the Worth that dwells
In some Fencer's Hands, or Dancer's Heels:
In Night Adventures does his Courage shew,
And sticks at nothing that a Rake can do:
Kicks Whores, breaks Windows, bullies where he may,
Revels all Night, and dozes half the Day:
Glories in all his Madness, to his Shame,
Till Age, Pox, Want, or Wedlock makes him tame.

So the young fiery Colt, not broke in Time,
Continues Headstrong, 'till he's past his Prime:
A thousand wanton jadish Tricks will play,
Start from the Track, and plow the miry Way;
Rend his strong Harness, from his Traces fly,
And with exalted Heels the Whip defy:
No Load behind his strenuous Shoulders take,
No Rider bear, or Saddle on his Back:
But young and pamper'd, will the Thong despise,
And on his hinder Feet in Triumph rise;
Till Poverty and Age his Vigour waste,
Stiffen his Limbs, and tame the vitious Beast:
Yet still, by fits and starts, he'll jadish be,
Tho' patient grown thro' mere Necessity.

So headstrong Man, that Rakes away his Youth,
Undisciplin'd in Virtue, and in Truth;
Though Age reforms him, yet he still retains
Some Tincture of his Lusts, whilst Life remains.

['Tis strange a Christian Country, where]

'Tis strange a Christian Country, where
The Laws so good and wholesome are;
Where Learning has for Ages flourish'd,
And e'ery useful Art been nourish'd;
Where Virtue, Piety, and Grace,
Are rooted deep, and spring apace;
Where true Religion does confound,
And strike bold Atheism to the Ground:
Where Justice, Honesty, and Money,
O'erflow like Canaan's Milk and Honey,;
That such a Land should shew a Race
Of Libertines so lewd and base,
'Tis wonderful; but yet we know,
That Tares among the Corn will grow;
Nor can the best of Soils be freed
From yielding here and there a Weed:
The cleanest Garden ne'er was found
Without some Vermin in the Ground:
Where the most noble Fruits are planted,
The Trees will be by Maggets haunted;
So that in Country, Town, or Place,
That happens to abound in Grace,
Old Nick will raise his wicked Plants,
To vex and scandalize the Saints.

Therefore, altho' we find a Brood
Of wicked Sons among the Good,
E'en let's suspend our Admiration,
Till Heav'n has prun'd our pious Nation.

The Yorkshire Club.

[Thus some from Cart, and some from Plough]

Thus some from Cart, and some from Plough,
And some from living God knows how,
Wrapt up in shrinking Cloth to hide,
And keep their Knavery warm beside.
With brawny Buttocks, cas'd with Leather,
And Latchets ty'd with Thongs together,
Fly from their Northern hungry Air,
To quit Oat-Bread for better Fare.
As Rooks forsake the barren Ground,
For Fields where standing Corn is found,
Or from the Hills their Wings expand,
To trespass on the new-sown Land,
So Northern Tikes, to shew their Wit,
Their native Ægypt gladly quit,
For happy Canaan's Milk and Honey,
Or what's as good; that is our Money.

Some on exalted Runlets ride
To Town, as Bacchus does, astride,
And sit a Story high, at least,
Above the Carrier's groaning Beast;

So those who leave their dearest Friends,
To cross the Main for noble Ends,
Mounted on Quarter Deck they stand,
In Triumph quit their native Land.

Some Tikes on Gennets make their Way,
Borrow'd by Night from Grass or Hay;
And when in London, where, unknown,
One Brute sells t'other as his own;
And thus each Rider's Horse or Mare,
The Charges of the Journey bear;
So Men, tho' press'd to leave the Nation,
Are forc'd to pay their Transportation;
And Ladies, when their Beaus bestride 'em,
Are glad to oft treat those that ride 'em.

Others forsake their North Abodes,
To beat on Foot the dusty Roads,
And in their Journey take the Pains
To pick up straggling Cocks and Hens:
But if their feather'd Friends deceive 'em,
Then humbly begging must relieve 'em,
'Till tir'd, then they address some Host
To grant an Under Hostler's Post,
Where, if not hinder'd by Disasters,
They rise Gradatim till they're Masters:
So cunning Courtiers oft supplant
Others by Fraud, whose Pow'r they want;
Then, haughty grown, they lord it o'er
Those Persons they obey'd before.

The Mock-Heroes Club.

[Should the dead Worthies from the Grave arise]

Should the dead Worthies from the Grave arise,
Shake off their Rust, and ope their drowsy Eyes,
And find their Glories, by the Sword obtain'd,
Sully'd by Blockheads, and by Boys profan'd,
They'd rend their Buskins, and their Helmets tare,
Renounce their Shields, and curse their Toils of War.

No more with Blood manure the dusty Plain,
But gaze upon their Lawrels with Disdain,
To see those valliant Actions they have done.
The Kingdoms they've subdu'd, the Battles won,
The beauteous Captives, and the wealthy Spoils,
They've brought from foreign Courts, and distant Isles.

Now ridicul'd by those, whose callow Years
Have ne'er been dispossest of boyish Fears,
But want e'en Courage to attack Love's Fort,
Which when 'tis taken, yields such pleasing Sport;
Tho' only Linnen-Walls the Place secure,
And feeble Woman guards the joyful Door,
Unable both to stand against a Storm,
Made by a gen'rous Foe, that's bold and warm.

Therefore how wild and silly must it prove,
In those who're Cowards in Attacks of Love,
And when, perhaps, invited, fear to draw
God Cupid's Sword, tho' back'd by Nature's Law,
To thus expose the Characters and Names,
Sully the Lawrels, and eclipse the Fames
Of Worthies dead, whose Actions ought to be
The brave Examples of Posterity.
But 'tis, alass, Youth's Vanity to think
Themselves undaunted Heroes o'er their Drink,
And to conceit that they're as wise and brave
As those whose Lawrels blossom in the Grave;
Tho' should they once the dusty Plains behold,
Where Lives for little Pay are bought and sold,

And where swift leaden Messengers of Fate
Make no Distinction 'twixt the Poor and Great,
They'd fly the Danger, stand a Distance off,
And reverence that Valour now they scoff;
Tremble to see the Brave their Ground maintain,
And honour those whose Names they now prophane.

So have I heard rash Coxcombs ridicule
This Gen'ral for a Coward, that a Fool;
And o'er their Ninny-Broth pretend to shew
How eas'ly Sweden may the Czar subdue:
But would these Heroes serve but one Campaign,
Beneath those Gen'rals they so much condemn,
View their Fatigues and Conduct, they'd adore
Those valiant Leaders they reproach'd before.

[And have the Heroes in disgust turn'd Tail]

And have the Heroes in disgust turn'd Tail
Upon such gen'rous Belch, such noble Ale,
That thus inspir'd them in Conceit to be
Soldiers and Worthies of the first Degree?
Since in such Dudgeon, they are thus remov'd
From pow'rful Ale, which they so dearly lov'd,
And think it a Dishonour here to quaff,
Because the Warriors see us Cowards laugh:
E'en let the Heroes to their Homes retreat,
For Fools will sneer, when such a Congress meet.
Mosco's Great Czar, who visited our Isles,
Altho' in Cog could not escape our Smiles,
But was the common Jest of all the Town,
Who laugh'd the more to see the Tyrant frown;
Became the Scoff of e'ery Lady bright,
Down to the Punk he kiss'd so oft one Night;
Nor cou'd the fam'd Ben-Hamet's Phiz escape
The grinning Manners of our English Frape:
Or the black Bantom shew his frightful Face
In London Streets, or any publick Place,
But he was scoff'd and flouted by a Herd
Of Vulcan's Sons with Crock and Colly smeer'd.

Why, then, should our Heroic Worthies shew
Their Anger at our Smiles; but since they do,

Let brave Quod Damnum to the Desk retire,
There write i'th' Cold six Hours without a Fire,
Till his dock'd Pen from his numb'd Fingers falls,
And his warm Breath supplies the Want of Coals.

Let the fam'd Julius Fondlepunk decline
His Studies, for his Fencers, Whores, and Wine,

Get drunk o'er Night among a Rakish Crew,
That little have to say, and less to do;
Then doze next Morning, till some lustful Dame
Pats with her Fan, to cool his am'rous Flame.

Let great Antonius Copywell be ty'd
To ingross Jointures for each weighty Bride;
And on the luscious Tails of wanton Jades,
Tag Settlements before their Beauty fades:
And lest the Keeping-Cully's Mind should change,
Or some new Face incline the Fool to range,
Nod o'er his Parchment-skins from Noon to Noon,
To scrape for Expedition when he'as done.

Let Maximinus Midnight mind his Scrawls,
And loosely scribble quaint Originals,
Cover his Desk mith Swarms of useless Writs,
Get drunk by Starts, and Bus'ness mind by Fits;
From Dice to Whoring, thence to Wine adjourn,
And thus pursue each modish Vice in Turn,
That the Rakes Office may secure its Fame,
And to the last support its ancient Name.

Let Hannibal his Spattle nimbly use,
And Plaisters spread for crippl'd Whores in Stews;
Mix nauseous Vomits, gilded Pills prepare,
To purge both Ends of the distemper'd Fair,
And to extinguish those Venereal Flames,
Kindl'd in Rakes by over-heated Dames,
That his long Bills more than the Pox may fright
His Patients from repeating Love's Delight.

Let Scipio Fippery, mew'd up behind
His shining Compter, be each Day confin'd
To draw on Gloves, to hide the Bacon Skins
Of Whores, that ply among the neighb'ring Inns;
Who with hard Shillings, newly earn'd, supply
Themselves with Nicknacks to invite the Eye,

And for small Pay their reeking Charms expand,
That Scipio may be clapp'd at second Hand.

Let bold Fabricius Block court Servant-Maids,
And sooth them till he mows their sweaty Heads;
Then slight the bald Pates, put 'em past all Hopes,
And woe fresh Lasses that abound with Crops;
Mix with his Whores Hair, Horse Manes and Tails,
With Beards of Goats in Sachels brought from Wales,
That Carrot Pates in borrow'd Locks may shine,
And Beaus by Beasts be made profusely fine.

Let prim Augustus Thimble dress and strut,
That his own Clothes may shew his Campaign Cut;
Frequent old Grays-Inn-Walks, that Beaus and Wits
May see how well his modish Garment sits;
Draw in young Fools to give his Shears the Vogue,
Because they see himself so trim and smug;
That when he nicely fits an am'rous Rake,
Or hides with Pads and Wads a Saddle Back;
The cully'd Spendthrifts may, without Dispute,
Pay double Bills for each commodious Sute,
And in a little Time their Pockets drain,
To make their Taylor much the better Man.

Let Alexander Bounce, with blunted File,
Teach Cowards to defend, and how to kill,
And make his Pupils think they're brave at Heart,
Because they push so well in Terce and Cart;
Till by affronting those they can't withstand,
They fall at last by some more fatal Hand;
Or leave St. Giles's Church upon the Right,
For pinking some poor Watchman in the Night.

Pompey Rhomboides, let the Rattle chalk
His Figures down, and o'er his Angles talk;
On Ale-house Tables shew the nearest Way,
From the North-Foreland into Hudson's Bay;

Compute the Leagues betwixt the distant Poles,
And fancy all that contradict him Fools;
Measure, with ease, the Circle of the Sun,
And tell you, to an Inch, what Miles he'as run:
But never let him more perplex his Brains,
With the sharp Battle on Pharsalia's Plains.

Let dull Darius Scribbletony write
For Men of Law, to be a Beggar by't,
Whilst sharp Attorneys swallow all the Gains,
And scarce will pay him for his Skins and Pens;
But at low Wages keep him still a Slave,
To this dull Sot, and t'other crafty Knave.

Let poor Caligula Chantwell repair
To Windmill-Hill, or to some Country Fair,
There, among stroling Players stretch his Throat,
In an edg'd Hat, fine Sword, but Thread bare Coat;
For 'tis by far more Honour to commence
Stage Songster, than to spunge for Want of Pence.

Let Ninus Lackwit wed a homely Bride,
Fit for no Mortal but himself to ride;
But let it be alone his Care to chuse
One that's as saving as himself profuse,
Who with their crabbed Looks and noisy Tongue,
May fright his Whores, and scare his Hangers on:
Then, thro' her Conduct, he may chance to save
Enough to bear his Charges to the Grave:
But if he single lives, and still should run
The Course he steers, he must be soon undone:
Or if he weds a Damsel that is fair,
His Follies will instruct her how to err,
Teach her ill Humours, and provoke the Shrew
To make him both a Buck and Beggar too.

Let starv'd Valerius Aquapote take care
To drudge in Term, and stroling Punks forbear;

Work late, rise early, scribble on like mad,
And loose no Time whilst Business may be had;
Learn to be saving of his scanty Coin,
And mount his Cock Loft e'ery Night by Nine;
Then in a long Vacation he may be
Exempt from Duns, and from his Hardships free,
And oft'ner change the Pump within the Rail
In Chanc'ry-Lane for Fullwood's fatt'ning Ale.

Let Crook-back'd Richard, in a faithful Glass,
Behold his homely Shapes and Monkey Face,
Strip off the Taylor's prodigal Disguise,
And view his Person with impartial Eyes;
Then would the crooked Pigmy boast no more
Of this fine Lady, t'other charming Whore;
Or tell, where e'er he comes, how much the Fair
Admire his Wit, his Humour, and his Air,
But rather, when a beauteous Face he sees,
Blush at his own uncouth Deformities,
And prize the gen'rous Lady of the Town,
That will comply to lay her Honour down,
To such a quaint Babboon for half a Crown.

Let pert Clarentius Blazon study hard,
To tell us why such Arms were first confer'd,
And strive to prove it worth a wise Man's while
To know what Bastard Dukes have grac'd our Isle,
What Nobles have been Traytors to their Prince,
And how their Coats came blotted Ages since;
What mighty Heroes, and what honour'd Clans,
Have been the spurious Broods of Courtezans;
That when grown learn'd in such old Tales as these,
And skill'd in Guillim's Curiosities,
Then to reward the Knowledge of his Brain,
The Fool may starve in Little Charter Lane.

The BEAUS Club.

[When foppish Apes presume to judge of Wit]

When foppish Apes presume to judge of Wit,
Merit should fly the Stage, and shun the Pit;
For partial Fools against the Wise prevail,
And by the Dint of Number turn the Scale:
Where Beaus unite, a rhiming Fop is safe,
His friendly Swarms without a Jest can laugh;
Commend a wretched Play without a Plot,
And clap the loudest when he's most in Fau't.
So when some Brewer for the Senate stands,
Whole Crouds of swanking Vict'lers he commands;
And the worse Man, the more the drunken Rout
Cry up his Virtues, and in Triumph shout,
Whilst honest Merit oft gives up the Day,
For some Sir Hops, and Grains to come in play.

[To be a modish Fop, a Beau compleat]

To be a modish Fop, a Beau compleat,
Is to pretend to, but be void of Wit:
'Tis to be squeamish, critical, and nice
In all Things, and fantastick to a Vice;
'Tis to seem Knowing, tho' he nothing knows,
And vainly lewd, to please his Brother Beaus;
'Tis in his Dress to be profusely Gay,
And to affect, Whore-like, a wanton Way;
'Tis to be charm'd with each new-fashion'd Whim,
And to be Modish to a vain Extream,
That each gay Punk a lustful Eye may roul,
And for his Shapes admire the pretty Fool;
'Tis to attack the Ladies with a Grace,
And still transfer his Love to each new Face,
Flutter about her Charms, till, like a Fly,
Burnt by the Flame, he's scorch'd amidst his Joy;
Then cursing of the B---ch, is forc'd to cool
The pocky Heat, by running oft to stool;
Till with repeated Purges, by Degrees
The pricking Pains and Inflammations cease.

Then pleas'd to find that he so Sound is made,
Resolves, in vain, to grow a cautious Blade:
So Wives in Travail vow to kiss no more,
But soon forget the Torment when it's o'er.

Thus eas'd by Powders, Bolus, and by Pill,
He damns the Whore, and pays the Surgeon's Bill,
But soon forgetting the Venereal Smart
That teaz'd and bridl'd the unruly Part,
Renews his Courage, still pursues the Game,
Makes Lust his Leader, Maidenheads his Aim,
Till caught a second Time by some lascivous Dame.

The Wrangling or Hussel-Farthing Club.

[Thus some, who grow from Boys to Men]

Thus some, who grow from Boys to Men,
Do into Children turn again,
And still delight to play the Fool,
As much as e'er they did at School.
Then, since they're Infants, tho' they've Wives,
And still affect such boyish Lives,
They ought to bear the Muses Flog,
When past the Jirk of Pedagogue:
For when they are so big and lusty,
So disobedient and so crusty,
That no stern Pedant durst to thrash 'em
It is the Poet's Right to lash 'em.

[Ladies who love, as most good Women do]

Ladies who love, as most good Women do,
Their Husbands should the nuptial Bonds renew,
Are always pert, and ready, if they've Sense,
To take Advantage of a Man's Offence,
Knowing kind Nature to oblige the Fair,
Allows but one soft Way when Husbands err,
To sweetly reconcile the marry'd Pair.

Therefore, when Men the nuptial Laws transgress,
And angry Wives put on a moody Face,
Warmly attack the faulty Spouse's Ear,
And preach loud Lectures on the Wrongs they bear;
They scold not to employ the restless Sting,
But merely quarrel for the other Thing.

Why then should Man, whose Fortune 'tis to take
A Female Partner for Enjoyment's sake,
Fear Woman's teasing Tongue when he offends,
Since ev'ry Fool knows how to make amends,
And with an angry Wife may be so eas'ly Friends.

The Quacks Club: Or, The Physical Society.

103

[Thus the fam'd Quacks, who by their senseless Bills]

Thus the fam'd Quacks, who by their senseless Bills,
Proclaim the Virtues of their worthless Pills,
And knavishly deceive the foolish Town
With Med'cines, even to themselves-unknown:
Met in a Body to contrive new Ways:
To live and thrive by short'ning others Days:
So Lawyers, skill'd in Quarrels and Debates,
From ruin'd Numbers draw their own Estates.

In this sharp Age it is a standing Rule,
For Knaves of ev'ry Kind to bite the Fool.

105

[Of all the Plagues with which our Land is curst]

Of all the Plagues with which our Land is curst,
The Frauds of Physick seem to be the worst:
For tho' the Law, 'tis true, abounds with Weeds,
And from Astrea's Rules too oft receeds,
Yet those keen Foxes of such sundry Sorts,
Who hang in Swarms about her awful Courts,
By their male Practice, and prolix Debates,
Can only hurt our Pockets and Estates.
But baneful Quacks, in Physick's Art unread,
To Weaving, Cobling, or to Tumbling bred;
Or else poor Scoundrels, who for Scraps and Thanks:
Swept Stages for their Master Mountebanks:
These to the World destructive Slops commend,
And do their poys'nous Cheats to Life extend;
By vain Pretences pick the Patient's Purse,
And with sham Med'cines make 'em ten times worse.
So the Quack Preacher, who pretends to heal
The wounded Conscience, scorch'd with too much Zeal,
For Want of judging rightly of the Cause,
Inflaming Gorrosives, from Scripture draws,
Which, wrong apply'd, for Want of Skill and Care,
Fill the sick Mind with Horror and Despair.

106

The Weekly Dancing Club: or Buttock-Ball in St. Giles's

108

[No sick Man's Chamber, when a hard bound Stool]

No sick Man's Chamber, when a hard bound Stool
Has eas'd his Brain, and does his Body cool,
Whilst Nurse with flaming Rosem'ry does disguise
The nauseous Fumes that from the Pan arise.
Could the nice Nose with such a Mixture touch,
And with strange Whiffs confound the Sense so much:
Or could the fam'd Pandora's pois'nous Box,
That fill'd the World at first with Plague and Pox,
Tho' mix't with sulph'rous Vapours that are sent
From Ætna's Mountain to the Firmament,
Met by a sweet and salutory Breeze,
That from Arabian Shores perfumes the Seas,
With more Surprise upon our Senses fall,
Or yield a Nosegay like the Buttock-Ball,
For there each Whiff that to the Nostril comes,
From sweaty Toes, foul Breaths, and pocky Bums,

109

Engender with Perfumes, that e'ry Minx
Wears to correct kind Nature's flowing Sinks,
And to confound the Nose, beget a thousand Stinks.

So savage Indians lustful Brutes embrace,
And oft amuse us with a monstrous Race.

113

[Thus all terrestial Things of Course]

Thus all terrestial Things of Course,
Soon change to better or to worse.

Churches have heretofore, by Rebels,
Been turn'd to Garrisons and Stables;
And Schools to make Maids fit for Spouses,
Have been reform'd to Meeting-Houses.
The Godly ev'ry Day we see,
Will start from Grace to Liberty;
And the poor Whore sometimes repents,
And claims a Place among the Saints:
Knaves, tho' unpunish'd by Afflictions,
Turn Puritans by strange Convictions;
And Puritans, tho' near their Graves,
As oft turn Vice Versa Knaves.
So that in Spite of all our Noses,
What wicked Satan one Way loses,
To keep his Int'rest at a Stand,
He gains again on t'other Hand:
So cunning Gamesters, Satan's Sons,
Recover by the Devil's Bones,
What at his Books they've thrown away,
Or squander'd at some other Play.

The Coward who in one King's Reign,
Is fearful of a sharp Campaign,
Perhaps i'th' next his Weapon draws,
And swaggers in another Cause:
The Traitor may in Time, grow just,
And change into a Man of Trust;
Or he that's now so just and wise,
Turn Fool, or Rebel, e'er he dies:
The very Priest that wins our Hearts,
Extol'd for Honesty and Parts
May prove in Spite of all his Grace,
A Janus with a double Face;
Religion once a popish Whore,
We see is now made very pure:

114

Who knows but that again she may,
One Time or other, run astray?
Therefore, since Manners, Men and Nations
Are subject to such strange Mutations,
Why should we wonder that a Place,
So infamously lewd and base,
Should now be made a Shop of Grace.

Nothing unalter'd long can rest;
All are but Changlings at the best.

The Bird-Fanciers Club: And their annual Feast.

116

[How can we blame our infant Sons]

How can we blame our infant Sons
For loving Tops, and Inkhorn-Guns:
Or think them foolish when they cry
For this, or that fantastick Toy,
Since Fathers, old enough for Grandsires,
Of silly Birds can be such Fanciers,
And, Children-like, disturb their Brains,
About Tom-Tits and Jenny-Rens?
'Tis true the old Egyptian Wizards,
Paid Homage to their Bats and Buzzards,
And reverenc'd fair Minerva's Bird,
As if the Owl had been a Lord
But in this Age, when Christian Souls
Adore their Gold instead of Owls,

117

And Men improve the Art of Thinking,
By little Study and much Drinking,
'Tis Time that Man should bend his Mind
To Pleasures of a nobler Kind;
And not to whistle Time away,
With feather'd Voices Day by Day,
To teach poor silly Birds the Tune,
Of Pudding-Pies, or Bobbing-Joan,
When his apt Scholars may at last,
Perhaps, but break poor Puss's Fast;
Who in one short, but fatal Minute,
May snap his Black-bird or his Linnet,
For which, perhaps, the foolish Ninny,
Had just before refus'd a Guinea;
Then in a Passion swears the Tongue
That bid the Gold was ev'ly hung.

So when Gaff Crump, by Gammer Brig,
Is bid the Value of his Pig.
And he the Money does deny,
Because the Beauty of his Sty,
Next Day, perhaps, some fatal Murrain
Turns the poor Gaffer's Sow to Carrion;
Then Crump in Anger, runs to claw
The Hog, that he her Blood may draw,
In Hopes to baulk the Witch, and save
His other Swine from Dunghill Grave.

201

[How fond is eve'ry Fool to be a Guest]

How fond is eve'ry Fool to be a Guest,
Where wild Disorder Crowns the noisy Feast?
As if indecent Scrambling with each Clown
And rude Confusion makes the Meat go down:
Sure Wife and Children, whom we ought to love,
Vexatious Mess-Mates to the Husband prove;
Or else no Spouse would rather chuse to dine
Among such greedy Herds of two-leg'd Swine,
Where dirty Boards or musty Vessels lye
As Tables, some too low, and some too high;
And where coarse Towels of a Groat a Yard,
Are only to the Parish Dons prefer'd;
Whilst those of lower Rank have neither Cloth,
Or Napkin, but are destitute of both;
Yet all sit easy o'er the Fare they find,
And gladly lick their Fingers when they've din'd:
Drink with their Lips unwip'd till greasy Oil
Glazes the Surface of their powerful Swill:

202

Yet no nice Guest, like squeamish Beau finds Fault,
But swallows down the Fat that crowns the Malt;
Why not? since each Man, lest the Proverb lyes,
Must eat a Peck of Dirt before he dies.

But if at publick Feasts we can agree
With such course Usage and Indecency;
And tho' we pay, yet be content to bear
With Slights and Failings when our Hosts shall err.
Why then at Home, when Trifles prove amiss,
Should we grow angry and disturb our Peace?
What tho' the Capons are in Roasting spoil'd;
Or the Calve's-Head too much, or little boil'd?
What if the Cloth be neither clean or fine,
When some dear Bottle Friend's brought Home to dine:
Or that your Wife should at the Table frown,
Because, perhaps, undrest in Morning Gown,
For Want of timely knowing she should be
Oblig'd to entertain strange Company,
Why should such Female Follies vex our Hearts,
And make us mad at Home by Fits and Starts?
Since we abroad, at our Expence, can bear
A thousand Faults that more provoking are,
To the proud Madams of the Bar bow low,
But to our Wives moross and slighting grow:
Wink at great Errors for a Vict'ler's Gain,
But oft at Home without a Cause complain.

Therefore, since guzzling Spendthrifts can dispence
With dirty Ale-House Slights without Offence,
When Maudling drunk they from their Revels come,
They should not crow and tyrannize at Home:
For he that snubs his Wife he ought to prize,
Is born to be a Cuckold e'er he dies

225

A Poem in Praise of the Art of LYING; written by a Member of the Lying Club.

O muse! inspire me with a brazen Face,
For good Assurance is a Lyar's Grace;
No painful Studies can our Thoughts refine,
Or gild our Wits like Impudence and Wine:
Such Pow'rs united bless us double fold,
One makes us bright, and t'other makes us bold:
O! Let me neither want, that I may praise
The Art of Lying in Romantick Lays;
That ancient Art, which has in Fashion been
E'er since fair Eve was Monarch Adam's Queen:
That noble Art, which taught them first to know
Forbidden Springs, where Tides of Pleasures flow;
And how by mutual Struggles to improve
The Force of Dalliance, and the Joys of Love.
What tho' it is by Saints and Priests decry'd,
And by the Great to meaner Slaves deny'd?
Yet well-bred Lying is an Art that's us'd
By those the most, by whom it's most abus'd;
It hides a thousand Faults from publick View,
And adds a Grace to ev'ry Act we do;
It is the Statesman's Friend, the Lawyer's Plea,
The Poet's Muse, the P---'s Security;
The Trader's Conscience, and the Woman's Veil,
That hides the Failings of her wanton Tail:
It conquers Beauty, carries on Intrigues;
It leads to Battle, and consummates Leagues;

226

It Merit gives to Fools of high Degree,
And yields the Pope Infallibility;
It draws the Crowd into a wild Belief,
Quickens our Joys, and moderates our Grief;
It does the Bibliopolæ's Wealth encrease,
And starves the Author to enrich the Press;
It paints the Patron of a glorious Hue,
And makes him learn'd in Arts he never knew;
It gives a Sanction to the wealthy Knave,
Bleeches the Dowdy, makes the Coward brave;
It shews the Harlot in a modest Dress,
And weaves a Covering for her foul Disgrace;
It oft appeases Jealousies, and finds
Pleasing Excuses, and a thousand Blinds,
Preserves the Comforts of a nuptial Life,
And makes the Cuckold hug the Jilt his Wife.

What tho' of Hellish Race, as some do hold,
And the first Lye was by the Devil told;
Yet should the Art of Lying be supprest,
And us'd no more in Earnest, or in Jest;
A thousand hurtful Truths would then arise,
Which now are skreen'd by necessary Lies;
My Lady could no more with Cousin hide,
And by her Maids and Footmen be deny'd;
Our Teachers no fictitious Tales impose,
To lead believing Thousands by the Nose;
No fulsome Praise from Poets Pens would flow,
To slatter this rich Knave, or that fine Beau;
No nauseous Adulations shame our Schools,
To raise the Fame of undeserving Fools:
In short, the greatest then must low'r their Pride,
And hear those Truths they would be glad to hide:
The Lady then that feasts her Lover's Arms,
Would seem no more all Innocence and Charms,
But her brib'd Confidants, when ask'd, betray
The shameful Secrets of each sinful Day;
Nor could the honour'd Fool, or wealthy Ass,
Thro' the whole Nation for a Solon pass;

227

But all appear, if stript of their Disguise,
Empty and vicious to the vulgar's Eyes:
Then why should busy Mortals be enjoyn'd
To follow Truth, since in this Age we find
Officious Lyes so useful to Mankind?

The Beggars Club.

228

[Tho' Begging is an honest Trade]

Tho' Begging is an honest Trade
That wealthy Knaves despise,
Yet rich Men may be Beggars made,
And we that beg may rise:
The greatest King may be betray'd,
And lose his sov'reign Power,
But we that stoop to ask our Bread,
Can never fall much lower.

CHORUS.

Then on with your Night-Caps, and tie up your Legs,
A Begging let's go for the Smelts and the Megs;
When the Mauts and Rum Culls have recruited our Store,
We'll return to our Boozing. O pity the Poor.

What lousy foreign Swarms this Year
Have spoil'd the begging Trade?
Yet still we live, and drink good Beer,
Tho' they our Rights invade:
Some say they're for Religion fled,
But wiser People tell us,
They're only forc'd to seek their Bread,
For being too rebellious.

CHORUS.

Then on with your Night-Caps, &c.

229

We hug our Ease, secure from Care,
Whilst Numbers lose Estates;
And some who our kind Masters were,
Become our jolly Mates:
If these good pious Days should last,
As most believe they will,
Hard Times will others Fortunes blast,
Whilst we are Beggars still.

CHORUS.

Then on with your Night-Caps, &c.

Let heavy Taxes greater grow,
To make our Army fight;
Where 'tis not to be had, we know
The King must lose his Right:
Let one Side laugh, and t'other mourn,
We nothing have to fear,
But that great Lords should Beggars turn,
To be as Rich as we are.

CHORUS.

Then on with your Night-Caps, &c.

What tho' we make the World believe
That we are Sick or Lame,
'Tis now a Virtue to deceive,
The Righteous do the same:
In Trade dissembling is no Crime,
And we shall live to see,
That begging, in a little Time,
A common Trade will be.

CHORUS.

Then on with your Night-Caps, &c.

230

Come fill a Bumper, Brother Mump,
And let us be as merry
As Cavaliers that burnt the Rump,
And sung, Hey down-a-derry:
Let Soldiers fight, and Sailors cruize,
Whilst Cowards curse the Taxes,
We'll stay at Home, tope humming Boose,
And hug our Mauts and Doxies.

CHORUS.

Then on with your Night-Caps, and tie up your Legs,
A Begging we'll go for the Smelts and the Megs;
When the Mauts and Rum Culls have recruited our Store,
We'll return to our Boozing. O pity the Poor.

235

[Since begging Vagrants, who alone depend]

Since begging Vagrants, who alone depend
On Providence, that universal Friend,
Can be content to glean their daily Bread,
And bless the bounteous Hand by which they're fed;
Sing and be joyful when their Store's but small,
And with a gen'rous Freedom spend their all,
How wretched must the Miser be, who lives
In dread of Want, and neither spends or gives,
But vainly hugging of his useless Store,
Starves, tho' he's rich, thro' Fear of being poor.

The Beggar for to Morrow takes no Thought,
Thinks himself rich if Master of a Groat,
Because when Hunger craves, he dares to part
With his whole Substance to revive his Heart.

The Miser, tho' encompass'd round with Gold,
Doats on his Bags of Wealth that lie untold,
In fetter'd Trunks the tarnish'd Dross secures,
And pines beneath those Wants his Gut endures:
T'improve his Hoards does Nature still abuse,
And vainly worships what he ought to use.

The poor Man needs but few Things to compleat
A happy Life, and make his Labours sweet;
Has the true relish of his homely Food,
And thinks his mouldy Scraps extreamly good.

But he that's Rich, and covetously bent,
Wants all that's needful by his own Consent;
Denies that Sustenance which Nature craves,
And makes himself to Wealth the worst of Slaves.

The Beggars Wishes seldom are profuse;
He only covets what he dares to use;

236

Limits his Hopes according to his Sphere,
And when he's able will enjoy good Chear;
Ne'er starves to multiply his Pence to Wealth,
But gladly drinks his Benefactors Health.

The Miser's Lust to greater Sums aspires,
The more he has, the more he still Desires:
Is ne'er content, but still improves his Pounds,
And grows most stingy when he most abounds;
Torments his Body till his Sands are run,
Then leaves his Hoards to some unthankful Son,
Who finding Bags on Bags in Coffers heap'd,
Profusely squanders what the niggar'd scrap'd.

Then who'd not chuse a gen'rous Beggar's Fate,
Much rather than a Miser's wretched State?

The Scatter-Wit Club.

238

A Hobby Horse Ditty in Praise of Juniper-Ale.

[_]

To the Cow-Dance Tune of Gallup and Shite.

I.

Come all ye grave old gouty Dons,
Lame Aldermen and Beadles,
Clap'd Beaus and Rakes, by butter'd Bums
Inflam'd with Pins and Needles.

II.

Come ye Misers that find
You have nothing but Wind
In your Guts, by neglect of good Eating:
And you Tun belly'd Swine,
Who as oft as you dine,
Stuff your Bellies with more than is fitting.

III.

If Cholick Pains, or aking Brains,
The Dropsy, Stone, or Gravel,
Bruises or Smarts, i'th' upper-Parts,
Or Ails below the Navel;
Or if hard bound by toping round
Bad Punch, or costive Clarets,
Or Midnight Joys, have made your Eyes
As Blood-shot as a Ferrets.

IV.

Drink my Juniper-Ale,
Not too Mild, or too Stale;

239

It gives ease in the worst of Conditions,
Mends the whole Mass of Blood,
And will do you more Good,
Than the College of Quacks and Physicians.

V.

Come all ye merry Dames that drink
Too much cold Tea, or Coffee,
And baren Jezabels that think
All fruitful Women scoff-ye.

VI.

Come ye whither'd old Jades,
And ye tallow fac'd Maids,
Who are sick for a lusty young Lover,
And ye Saint looking Tits,
Who are wicked by Fits,
And repent when the Pleasure is over.

VII.

Come you that find, by being Kind,
Your Guts begin to grumble;
And you that cry, when kiss'd, O fie,
But yet will backwards tumble.

VIII.

Come High-Church, Low-Church,
Trimmer, no Church,
Libertines and Quakers,
I'll cure you all, both great and small,
From Lords to Kennel-Rakers.

IX.

CHORUS.

Drink my Juniper-Ale, and 'till open the Tail,
Turn a Hypocrites Zeal into Farts;
Make a canting old Cuff, if he drinks but enough,
Out chatter a Master of Arts.

240

It will cool a Man's Veins, purge his Belly and Reins,
And infallibly root out the Scurvy,
Give a Husband new Life, make him smuggle his Wife,
Till he tumbles her Topsie-turvy.
It is brisk in the Mouth, very good to quench Drouth:
Is most excellent after a Fuddle:
Take a little 'twill cool any Feaver by Stool,
And a Dose will climb into the Noddle.

[O that my Rump had but an Eye to weep]

I

O that my Rump had but an Eye to weep,
And that my Farts like mighty Guns could roar,
My Arse no Councils for the great should keep,
But echo Wonders from the British Shore.

II

Some Night-man's Doxy would I dub my Muse,
She should my Guts, instead of Brains, inspire.
A Painter's Pencil for a Pen I'd chuse,
And dawb whole Fools-Cap Reams with T---d and Mire.

241

III

My Tail prophetick Poems should excrete;
I'd rise Arse upwards ev'ry Day by times;
On Boghouse Walls I'd digitize my Wit,
And shitten Luck should wait upon my Rhimes.

IV

The Pope with Heath'nish Scandal I'd besmear,
And with Dutch Morals poison Jews and Turks;
I'd make each modern Saint a Knave appear,
And H---y H---ls, should pirate all my Works.

I'd sing of Lady Jilts, and lustful Kings,
Justice to Knaves, and Wit to Blockheads teach,
At Stool I'd fizzle out a thousand Things,
And with Quack's Bills, then mundify my Breech.

[Tho' Phillis my Request denies]

I

Tho' Phillis my Request denies,
I'm sure she hugs me in her Thoughts;
Sh'as Nests of Sparrows in her Eyes,
And in her Heart a Herd of Goats;
For when I ask her to be kind,
Tho' her deceitful Tongue crys no,
Yet to the Joy she seems inclin'd,
For something else crys yes below.

242

II

O that she would but let me know
How much she does the Bliss desire,
With balmy Drops, as white as Snow,
I'd add fresh Fuel to her Fire:
Therefore since she my Flame can cool,
And with new Pleasures fan her own,
Is not the silly Nymph a Fool,
To long for Man, yet lie alone,

III

I see by e'ery Step she treads,
And e'ery Glance the Gypsie throws,
That tho' she's rank'd among the Maids,
She sins in Fancy as she goes:
Her Bubbies heave, her Buttocks move;
Her Belly cleaves the yielding Air;
Her wrinkling Eyes dissolve in Love,
And shew the Joy she finds elsewhere.

IV

O how her luscious Charms will melt,
When she the nuptial Dart receives.
What Man, for Millions, would be gelt,
Whilst such a lovely Creature lives?
What tho' she's coy, and does withdraw
Her Smiles, when I entreat and pray,
Yet Virtue, when she's warm will thaw,
And drop like melting Ice away.

243

[There is a Thing that's seldom seen]

I

There is a Thing that's seldom seen,
Felt, heard, or understood;
Yet 'tis a Place we've all been in,
E'er we were Flesh and Blood.

II

It's a warm pleasant House that has
Seven Chambers on one Floor;
And tho' it is so wide a Place
It opens but one Door.

III

It is an easy Mansion, where
Both Sexes live and dwell;
It has no Window, I aver,
But is as dark as Hell.

IV

The Door three Quarters of a Year
Is very oft kept shut,
And then what enter'd lifeless there,
From thence comes living out.

V

Whoever dwells within its Walls,
Meat Drink, and Cloathing find;
But when the Dame that keeps it calls,
They leave it all behind.

244

VI

Tho' Moneyless, to Food they're free,
But never chew one Bit;
They live and thrive, but cannot see
What 'tis they drink or eat.

VII

They often kick their dearest Friend,
Till they can bear no more,
Who then does for Assistance send,
And turns them out of Door.

VIII

But when the Tenant's forc'd to quit
Their warm and thriving Station,
The Messuage in a Month is fit
For further Occupation.

[Jewel, how charming is thy cole-black Nose]

Jewel, how charming is thy cole-black Nose;
How moist it looks; how prettily it grows;
Shap'd like an Æthiopian Lady's Snout,
And shines like polish'd Ebony, or Jut;
Flat in the Middle, rising at the End;
Cool as the Waters that from Rocks descend,
And to the sweaty Palm a pleasing Friend.

245

Contiguous to this beauteous Feature hangs
A lovely Mouth, well arm'd with Ivory Twangs,
Whose Lips are honour'd oft with kind Salutes.
To Man deny'd, tho' granted thus to Brutes:
A Mouth whose Tongue my Lady's Wants supplies,
But never tell the Freedom it enjoys;
Pleases much better than the Spanish Art,
Tickles at once aud mundifies the Part.

Large rowling Eyes the fav'rite Puppy wears,
Whose flowing Juices gum the neighb'ring Hairs,
Which Miss, to shew how far her Love exceeds,
Wipes with her Tongue to cleanse the pretty Beads,
Kindly rewards the little four-leg'd Beau,
For secret Service he performs below;
Who at the Monster does half frighted stare,
And cries Baw-waw, as Butcher's Dog at Bear.

Like modish Wig, his flapping Ears hang down
Below his Nostrils, from his curling Crown,
Comb'd every Hour with so much Art and Care,
'Tis difficult to find one straggling Hair;
But fall so nice, are such a charming Grace,
To ev'ry Feature of the Puppy's Face,
That no Bel's Pinner tiffl'd half a Day,
Can make the am'rous Wanton look more gay.

His pretty Paws, like Hoof's of Flanders Mare,
Or something else, are cover'd o'er with Hair,
That as he treads 'twixt Chimney and the Door,
Like little Brooms they sweep the dusty Floor;
And gather in his Range the nimble Flees,
That hop for Air from Madam's Thighs and Knees:
And when he's comb'd are by the Whelp convey'd
To the flabby Bosom of her wither'd Maid,
Who shakes them off upon the Coachman John;
So thro' the House the high-bred Vermin run,

246

Lest a wet Finger does their Lives betray,
And Thumb-Destruction meets 'em by the Way.

His Body does a Party-liv'ry wear,
Made up of white and liver-colour'd Hair,
Oft trimm'd by S---gw---k, that the Cur may prove
An Object worthy of his Lady's Love:
Who with her own soft Fingers parts his Crest,
And curls the Rudder of the fondled Beast,
Whose Stern, to make amends, must bear the Blur,
When Madam drops by Chance a gentle Slur:
So cunning Statesmen to preserve their Fame,
Find Puppies, when they Err, to bear the Blame.

O happy Jewel, to be thus carest,
And by so fair a Dame so highly blest:
Pamper'd at Table with the nicest Bits,
And made Partaker of expensive Treats;
Hug'd in the Lap of Pleasure by the Fair,
As if God Priapus himself was there:
Stroak'd as thou slumberst 'twixt thy Lady's Knees,
As if thou hadst some secret Power to please;
Fondled all Day, and then at Night prefer'd
To sleep in Holland, and be Honour's Guard,
That none without thy Notice should approach
The Seat of Joy, which thou hast Leave to touch,
And with thy icy Nose presum'st to kiss,
Without Offence, the very Gates of Bliss.

O! that I might thy happy Place supply,
Where many a Christian would be glad to lie.
Like thee I'd start at e'ery Noise I heard,
And snarl at each new Rival that appear'd;
Ingross those Charms which you so oft salute,
And hang thee for a bold aspiring Brute.
For who that loves without Revenge can see
A Cur enjoy more Happiness than he,
And not expel thee from the Sheets design'd
Only for Mortals of a nobler Kind.

247

And should the charming Dame that hugs thee now,
At my Commands, but shew an angry Brow,
I'd scorn the Quean that should so foolish be,
And wholly give her up to Dogs like thee.

For she that does her Beauty such Disgrace,
As in her Bed to give her Whelp a Place,
And tho' her angry Lover does complain,
Will still commit the Folly o'er again,
E'en let her live with Dogs despised by Men.

[Rimings become a London Plague]

Rimings become a London Plague,
That spreads like Knav'ry at the Hague;
Mechanicks, whom Apollo knows,
Ought only to romance in Prose;
Have now improv'd the Gift of Lying,
Into the Knack of Versifying,
As if, cause Trading is no better,
They were resolv'd to starve in Meter.

248

The Bankrupt Trader, heretofore,
Uss'd to turn Law Solicitor;
Manage bad Causes in the Hall,
To gain at last the Dev'l and all;
Bribe Witnesses to say and swear,
What's useful in a legal War,
That an ill Cause mayn't want a Lye
To steer the honest Jury by.
But now, as soon as left his Shop,
And giv'n his Creditors the Drop.
He tags his Brains, and up there starts
A poetizing Ass of Parts,
Who storms the Church with grinning Satyr
And so becomes a Saint-like Creature.
For he that would be reckoned witty
By the grave Goose-Caps of the City.
Must learn of F--- to scandalize
All Truth and Honesty with Lies;
Then shall the Saints his Cause espouse,
And fix the Lawrel on his Brows;
For 'tis not Wit, in these dull Days,
But Malice, that must gain the Bays;
Therefore those Scatter-Wit Buffoons,
Who deal so much in Church Lampoons
Cannot do less, to please their Party,
Than damn themselves to shew they're hearty;
And then to make his Fame the brighter,
They'll swear he's a Saint-like Writer.

249

The Florists Club.

257

['Tis strange that Men of Sence should doat]

'Tis strange that Men of Sence should doat
Upon a gaudy fading Toy,
Beneath a Wisemans sober thought;
In all its Bloom not worth a Groat,
It does so quickly die.

Man should delight his pensive Mind
With things more permanent and bright,
Wherein the active Soul may find
Enjoyments of a nobler Kind,
That reach beyond the Sight.

258

Flowers are Gugaws only fit
To gratify a Womans Pride
And Man that boasts superior Wit,
Should leave those Toys so fair and sweet,
To th'study of his Bride.

Adam first Master of the Spade,
Who did in Eden dig and live,
Altho' a Gard'ner by his Trade,
We never read that e'er he made
One Nosegay for his Eve.

Such blooming Trifles ne'er imploy'd
One careful Hour of Adam's Life;
They only grow in some back-side,
The privy Garden of his Bride,
Inclos'd to please his Wife.

'Tis true much Beauty we may find,
In blushing Roses and Carnations;
But what are they to Woman kind,
Who yield the Body and the Mind;
Much sweeter Recreations?

But Man should elevate his Thought
To yet a much sublimer pitch,
And not, like Maids, on Flowers doat
Or too much on the Petticoat,
But curb the foolish Itch.

But if a Man must please his Sight,
And be a Slave to Beauty's Pow'r,
Give me the Lass that's young and bright,
Full of good Humour and Delight,
Take you the gaudy Flow'r.

259

Bob Weden's Cellar Club.

263

[Mourn all ye Nibblers at a Jest or Pun]

Mourn all ye Nibblers at a Jest or Pun,
Dabblers in Wit, who live as if you'd none;
Infernal Rakes, who with inebrious Bowls
Of Stygean Spirits, drown your thirsty Souls:

264

Weep o'er your Bumpers of the Hell-born Juice,
Drank now by Ladies, down to Whores in Stews;
Till your warm Tears into your Cups descend,
Then swill to th'Mem'ry of your absent Friend;
That he your Sorrows for his Loss may know,
And kindly pledge your burning Draughts below.

Let the curs'd Still your craving Lusts supply,
Like Weden drink till you become more dry,
That your parch'd, shrivel'd Entrails may require
A Flood of Water to abate their Fire;
Then may you find that strange unbeaten Road,
Which surely none but Weden ever trod;
Who in a Sea of Brandy drown'd his Care,
And seem'd to only live by Fire and Air:
With flaming Quarts he boldly would engage,
And was the Salamander of the Age;
Victuals he slighted, as a useless Toy,
But Draughts united he would hug with Joy;
With Spirits fill'd his Veins instead of Blood,
For Brandy was alone his Drink and Food.

Brandy i'th' Morning did his Stomach heal,
That and Tobacco was a princely Meal;
I' th'Afternoon a Bumper chear'd his Heart,
Liquor'd his Brains, and made his Wits more smart;
Inspir'd his Fancy with a thousand Whims,
As fiery Zeal does Calvin's Saints with Dreams.

At Night it rais'd him to a nobler Pitch,
Made him not only Wise, but Great and Rich;
Proud as a Prince whom Slaves and Vassals dread,
And gave him large Dominions in his Head;
So th'Cobler, when good Ale has warm'd his Brains,
In Fancy forms new Worlds, o'er which he reigns;
Among fat Ale-wives does exert his Pow'r,
Till Sleep abates the drunken Calenture;
Then with a drowsy Noddle full of Pain,
Old Cæsar to a Cobler turns again.

265

Weep all ye Midnight and insatiate Sots,
Who sacrifice your Ease to Gills and Pots;
That Bob, the Glory of this drunken Age,
Should in his Prime forsake the publick Stage;
He whose strong Breath, less fragrant than his Toes,
Was like a Hartshorn Bottle to his Nose;
And with Tobacco, Brandy, and the Pox,
Out-stunk the Poisons of Pandora's Box;
But now, alas, he lies embalm'd in Rum,
Whilst Swarms of Crabs invest his sandy Tomb;
There let him rest, to Brandy once a Slave,
Unmatch'd on Earth, unequall'd in the Grave.

The Mollies Club.

268

['Tis strange, that in a Country, where]

'Tis strange, that in a Country, where
Our Ladies are so kind and fair,
So gay and lovely to the Sight,
So full of Beauty and Delight;
That Men should on each other doat,
And quit the charming Petticoat:
Sure the curs'd Father of this Race,
That does both Sexes thus disgrace,
Must be a Master, mad or drunk,
Who bedding some prepost'rous Punk,
Mistook the downy Seat of Love,
And got them in the Sink above;
So that at first a T---d and They
Were born the very self-same Way;
From whence they drew this cursed Itch,
Not to the Belly, but the Breech;
Else who could Woman's Charms refuse,
To such a beastly Practice use?

269

'Tis true, that Swine on Dunghills bred,
Nurs'd up in Filth, with Offel fed,
Have oft the flow'ry Meads forsook,
To wallow Belly-deep in Muck;
But Men who chuse this backward Way,
Are fifty times worse Swine than they;
For the less Savage four-leg'd Creature,
Lives but according to his Nature;
But the Bug'ranto two-leg'd Brute,
Pursues his Lust contrary to't;
The brawny Boar will love his Sow;
The Horse his Mare; the Bull his Cow;
But Sodomites their Wives forsake,
Unmanly Liberties to take;
And fall in Love with one another,
As if no Woman was their Mother:
For he that is of Woman born,
Will to her Arms again return;
And surely never chuse to play
His lustful Game the backward Way:
But since it has appear'd too plain,
There are such Brutes that pass for Men;
May he that on the Rump so doats,
Be damn'd as deep as Doctor Oates,
That Scandal unto all black Coats.

The Bawds Initiating Club.

273

[Would she who can her Virgin Honour boast]

Would she who can her Virgin Honour boast,
Consider wisely, e'er the Jewel is lost,
That her own Happiness, her Parents Joy,
Depends upon her proving chaste and coy,

274

Unlawful Pleasures she would then despise,
Value her Beauty, guard her roving Eyes,
And o'er her youthful Wishes tyranize.
So he that is with too much Care opprest,
And hopes by one bold Stroke to purchase Rest,
Let him but think before he gives the Blow,
And from his Breast he will the Dagger throw.

Woman if once to sinful Pleasures won,
Can never stop till by her Ills undone;
One single Folly does her Charms divest
Of all that Honour that should keep her chaste,
Leaves her unguarded, ready to comply,
When any Man she likes attempts the Joy;
So he that has a daring Robb'ry done,
N'er sticks at any when he's flush'd with one.

Women should let their Virgin Thoughts aspire,
And learn themselves to prize what we admire;
When e'er they're told that they're divinely fair,
Altho' they blush, they should believe they are,
And think it far beneath 'em to debase
The lovely Charms of such an Angel's Face:
Or that their Breasts with Beauty so adorn'd,
Should into Snakes, and Serpents Dens be turn'd:
For Woman of her Virtue dispossest,
Is but a treacherous Creature at the best;
When that's once lost, sh'as Nothing on her Side,
That can support a warrantable Pride;
Without which Champion to defend her Charms,
She lies expos'd to e'ery Coxcomb's Arms,
Who has but Sense the yielding Dame to court,
And Courage to attack Love's feeble Fort;
For Lovers know 'tis easy to invade
Th'Hesperian Garden, when the Dragon's fled.

Woman should be reserv'd both Maid and Wife,
An Hour misus'd condemns her for her Life;

275

Nay all the Woes that can the Sex surprize,
From one unguarded Moment oft arise;
Beauty's in Danger always, and must watch
To keep her Magazine from Cupid's Match;
For if the Fire of Love be once misplac'd,
It blows up all that should preserve her chaste,
And when the Walls of Virtue ruin'd are,
She's always wretched, tho' she's ne'er so fair;
For none adore her Charms, to others free,
But further to compleat her Misery.

SAM SCOTS Smoaking Club.

280

[How far do such tenacious Sots exceed]

How far do such tenacious Sots exceed,
The Ratio of those Brutes which cannot think?
Who sacrifice their Lives to such a Weed?
Whose only Virtues are to Smoak and Stink.

Wine is a Cordial that revives the Soul,
Yet that's destructive, drank to an Extream,
But damn'd Tobacco makes the Fancy dull,
And surely was, long since, the Devil's Dream.

What wondrous Vertues must be first ascrib'd,
To make the pois'nous fi'ry Leaf go down,
Or Man its stinking Fumes had ne'er imbib'd,
But the curs'd Plant had rotted still unknown.

Well might the Royal Scot so much exclaim,
Against an Herb, that did such Mischief breed,
Which in his happy Days had scarce a Name,
Besides that odious Term of Indian Weed.

Nor would the nauseous Product e'er have grown,
Within these Realms, so popular a Vice,
Had it not brought large Incomes to the Crown,
And been a grand Promoter of Excise.

All Subjects may the Priviledge enjoy,
Of turning Fools, to serve the awful Great,
Or impious Knaves, if they can prove thereby,
They propagate the Int'rest of the State.

281

A Vice-Sick Nation soon might find a Cure,
From those wise Heads who do the Helm command,
Were not those Fipp'ries, made the Props of Pow'r,
Which spread the vile Corruption thro' the Land.

If Wine or Weed are like to prove the Bane,
Or other foreign Toys, our Sins encrease
Why do such Gluts in Triumph cross the Main?
Keep out the Cause, and the Effect will cease.

If the Temptation be allow'd to spread,
By those, who, by our Sins grow Rich and Great,
Why should they punish Fools? who are misled,
To gorge the Hook their very Rulers bait.

So Town Reformers full of Zeal and Grace,
Who only punish Whores that cannot pay,
Protect those very Stews, they should suppress,
As useful Traps to catch their heedless Prey.

They punish not the Sin to spoil the Trade,
That would themselves as well as Whores undo,
By the same reigning Vice both get their Bread;
The wanton Harlot, and Reformer too.

Thus she that is most wicked in her Way,
To staff Reformers is the surest Friend,
The more she sins the better she can pay;
And thus in Gain our pious Labours end.

Just so, our sober Zealots boast too late,
The Laws design'd our Vices to suppress,
Since now 'tis made the Int'rest of the State,
For Men to Drink and Smoak to an Excess

282

The Market Womens Club.

290

[Women, who once from Virtues Paths recede]

Women, who once from Virtues Paths recede,
And from the blushing Fear of Shame are freed;
Whatever darling Vice they chance to chuse,
Fanatick like, with too much Zeal they use;
Grow such fond Lovers of the sinful Toy,
That 'tis the only Idol of their Joy:
Nor can their Passions be content to taste
A mod'rate Sip of the delightful Feast,
But with unbounded Appetites fall too,
And always to their Bane, their Lusts pursue;
Ne'er check the Reins, if they the Chase approve,
But even worry what they so well love:
So the tame Cat, that's prone to play abroad,
If once she strays into some Neighbouring Wood,
Fond of her Freedom will the House refrain,
For Birds and Snakes, will Rats and Mice disdain,
And grow too wild and pamper'd to return again.

If 'tis a Woman's Destiny to chuse
Those Stygean Spirits, so advanc'd in Stews;
Within the Reach of her extended Hand,
Both Day and Night the Fiery Juice must stand;
Stop'd safely close 'twixt Glassy Walls immur'd,
Or she's too Sick to be without it cur'd:
Faints if deny'd it; hugs it when it's brought,
And soon revives, not with a Dram but Draught,
Till the curs'd Fumes inflame her giddy Brains,
Then of the Vapours she aloud complains;
Cries to her Maid, O feel my clammy Sweats,
Yet drinks it for that Illness it creates:

291

Thus wedded to her Vice she wears away,
But finds new Causes for her swift Decay:
On what she loves will no Aspersion cast,
But hugs the Poison till it proves her last.

Or if she doats upon a Tavern Treat,
And thinks the Charms of costly Wine most sweet,
From one to many Quarts she soon improves,
Till made a shameful Slave to what she loves:
No prudent Bounds can her Desires inclose,
In what's her Vice she still insatiate grows,
Will the vain Habit into Scandal wear,
And scoff the Friend that begs her to forbear.
Thus, if once enter'd, 'tis her foolish Pride,
To be undone before she's satisfy'd:
Just so the Robber, who repents too late,
Ne'er quits his Rogueries till he meets his Fate.

Or if she's lavish of her Female Charms,
And too much Lust her colder Nature warms,
That 'tis her Vice to hunt the am'rous Game,
And Rival Crowds must fan her Restless Flame;
A Thousand Ways to win you, she'll devise,
Tempt you with Smiles, and Court you with her Eyes,
And if she finds your Modesty too great,
To use those Freedoms she would fain be at,
Or that your Want of Courage spoils her Sport,
And makes you fearful to attack the Fort,
Into your Soul her Eyes shall dart their Fire,
And your chaste Thoughts, with Impudence inspire,
Force you, in spite of Grace, to prove unjust,
And hug you till you sooth her craving Lust;
Amidst the Joy, will be so lewdly kind,
She'll charm you with those ills you ne'er design'd;
Make you by Dint of Extasy approve,
Her Arts, and think her Impudence, her Love,
When all the while she does her Powers exert,
'Tis but to ease her own lascivious Heart,

292

Where lustful Devils do in Legions dwell,
Her melting Charms with double Forces swell,
And in her sinful Pleasures help her to excell.

So practise modulates the Singer's Throat,
And makes it yield a more melodious Note.

If Gaming chance to be a Woman's Vice,
She's then a restless Slave to Cards and Dice:
Husband nor Children can the Shrew reclaim,
But all must truckle to that tyrant Pam:
Her kind Allowance, tho' it's ne'er so large,
Is all too little to support the Charge:
Fond of her Judgment, she conceits she knows,
The Game so truly well she cannot lose,
Yet seldom wins, but still pursues her Itch,
'Till Beggar'd, through the Hopes of growing Rich,
Except her prudent Spouse secures his Gold,
And gives her but the empty Bag to hold:
Which if he does, and wisely keeps her Poor,
If handsome then she in Revenge turns Whore:
Thus let her Vice be whatsoe'er it will,
Woman, without Restraint, will have her fill:
And if opposed in what she most approves,
Or by her Spouse debar'd of what she loves,
In spite of all his Care she'll Disobey,
And plague her Nuptial Lord some other way.

For Woman, if provok'd ne'er wants the Sense,
To out do Man in Graft or Impudence.

293

The Thieves Club.

295

[Just so reforming Constables protect]

Just so reforming Constables protect
The Harlot that can bribe as they expect;
But if she once grows Poor, thro' want of Trade,
In Triumph then, they flog the needy Jade.

298

[What dismal Tracts do wicked Mortals find]

What dismal Tracts do wicked Mortals find,
If once to Lust and Infamy resign'd?
What human Laws can stubborn Rogues reclaim,
When past the Fear of Punishment, or Shame?
Nor can the Threats of future Pains prevail,
Where Dread of Death, and present Tortures fail,
For he that will no humane Laws obey,
Will ne'er be aw'd by what the Priests can say;
But harden'd in his Ills will still rebel,
And hazard Life and Heav'n, in Spite of Hell;
So the fierce Bull Dog, mischievously bold,
Disdaining, at his Sport to be controul'd,
Will die by Peace-meal e'er he quits his Hold.

Some, when they're hurry'd to the Brink of Fate,
Where forc'd Repentance shews its Tears too late,

299

Will on their Parents lay the final Blame,
And move our Pity, to lament their Shame
What Father then would let his Children want
Good Education, under due restraint?
Lest, if remise in his paternal Care,
His wither'd Age so sad a Charge should bear.

Others, pursuant to a just Decree,
Drawn to the Brink of dark Eternity:
With trembling Nerves, and shaking Head declare
Their loose Companions taught 'em first to err:
Decoy'd them gently in, and by degrees,
Boldly confirm'd them in their Villanies.
Let it O Youth! be then thy early Care,
To truly know what thy Associates are;
That from the Bad thou may'st select the Good,
And shun the poisonous Converse of the Lewd:
For he that rowles in Nettles must be stung;
Nor can the Fool be clean that wades in Dung.

Therefore the only Way to be secure,
And keep an honest Reputation pure,
Is to shew wisely 'tis your Care to be
Distinguish'd by your virtuous Company.

The Small-Coal-Man's Musick Club.

302

[Come all ye merry Beaus and Blades]

1. [The first part]

I.

Come all ye merry Beaus and Blades,
Who love the charming Fiddle,
And airy Jades that pass for Maids,
Tho' kind below the Middle.

303

II.

Upon Thursdays Repair
To my Palace, and there
Hobble up Stair by Stair;
But I pray ye take Care
That you break not your Shins by a Stumble,
And without e'er a Souse,
Paid to me or my Spouse,
Sit as still as a Mouse
At the Top of my House,
And there you shall hear how we fumble.

III.

For tho' I look black
When I carry my Sack
About Streets at my Back,
Crying Maids do you lack
Any Charcoal, or Small-Coal, within;
Yet by Fits and by Starts
Do I study all Arts
And can tickle your Hearts
With my sweet Tenor Parts
Upon Viol, or crack'd Violin.

CHORUS.

Altho' disguis'd with smutty Looks,
I'm skill'd in many Trades:
Come hear me Fiddle, read my Books,
Or buy my Small Coal, Maids.

304

2. The Second Part.

I.

We Thrum the fam'd Corrella's Aires;
Fine Solos and Sonnettos
New Riggadooons and Maidenfairs,
Rare Jigs and Minuettos.

II.

We run squeaking up
To the Finger-Board Top,
And from Ela can drop
Down to G with a Swop;
That would ravish ye were you but near us;
And when cramp'd by hard Tugs
At our Bottles and Muggs,
Then we give you such Fugs,
That would startle your Lugs,
And amaze any Master to hear us.

III.

Sometimes we've a Song,
Of an Hour or two long,
Very nicely perform'd
By some Beau that's so warm'd
With the Charms of his Chloe's sweet Face,
That he chooses out his Love
Like the amorous Dove;
Which the Ladies approve,
And would gladly remove
All the Cause of his sorrowful Case.

305

CHORUS.

Alth' disguis'd with smutty Looks,
I'm skill'd in many Trades;
Come hear my Fiddle, read my Books,
Or buy my Small-Coal, Maids.

3. The Third Part.

I.

Tho' our reforming pious Age
Does so in Grace abound,
And neither Smiles upon the Stage,
Or Musick's charming sound.

II.

Yet a Fool may divine
If his Thoughts are like mine,
That your pious Design,
Is to come at our Coin:
'Tis for that you dissemble and wheedle.
By your leave Master Cant,
Tho' as grave and as quaint,
As the Devil turn'd Saint,
It is Musick I want;
And we must have a Touch at the Fiddle.

III.

Lead away Mr. Prim;
Sir do you follow him:
How the Parts sweetly Chime?
Mr. Clod mind your Time;
Tis a wonderful Tune tho it's plain:

306

What a Cadence is there!
How it tickles the Ear!
You're too fast Sir, forbear;
We are all out I swear:
Since 'tis good, let's begin it again.

CHORUS.

Altho' disguis'd with smutty Looks,
I'm skill'd in many Trades:
Come hear my Fiddle, read my Books,
Or buy my Small-coal, Maids.

The Kit-Cat Club.

310

[A London Sheriff kept so poor a House]

A London Sheriff kept so poor a House
His empty Cubboard starv'd a hungry Mouse;
But kind Mecænas by two Mice addrest,
Tho' he starv'd one, he did the other feast.

Another upon the same.

[Great Men like Fortune do their Gifts impart]

Great Men like Fortune do their Gifts impart
To gratify themselves, not our Desert:
Why, then, my Friend, art thou discountenanc'd?
To see less Merit for thy Wit advanc'd?
The Roman Poet did the Lines devise.
But he that stole the Fame, obtain'd the Prize.

A Third upon the same.

[Since one industrious Mouse took all the Pains]

Since one industrious Mouse took all the Pains,
'Tis hard the other should ingross the Gains:
But smooth Tongu'd Confidence will still prevail,
When Wit, eclips'd with Modesty, shall fail.

311

A Fourth upon the same.

['Tis hard that one Mouse should be made a Rat]

'Tis hard that one Mouse should be made a Rat,
Feed on whole Flitches, and on Cheese of Cheshire,
Whilst t'other, who deserves to be as fat,
Shall be deny'd the Comfort of a Rasher;
But mastiff Poets oft are doom'd to Starve,
Whilst Lap-dog Wits are hug'd, who less deserve.

314

[Bright Phoebus, Parent of the tuneful Quire]

Bright Phoebus, Parent of the tuneful Quire,
To whose kind Rays the Muses owe their Fire,
Shall now no more in mournful Days complain,
That British Dulness clouds the Monarchs Reign,
Since Kit Cat Wits thy ancient Title own,
Support thy Glory and assert thy Throne;
Great as Apollo's Court, the Brethren sit,
Claiming a Pow'r from thee to judge the Wit;
Nor will their Juncto let unpolish'd Swains,
Prophane thy Altars with their croaking Strains;
But damn the Dross, will let no Counters pass,
That are not of their own Corinthian Brass,
So Princes, who the Right of Coinage claim,
Punish the Slave that dare to do the same,
Drag the poor Traytor to his farewell Pray'rs,
And hang him, tho' his Coin's as good as theirs.

Supreme in Fancy, tow'ring in Conceit,
The learn'd Cabal o'er Shoals of Custards meet,
Mix'd here and there with Jellies and with Tarts,
Set off with all Kits Culinary Arts.

In luscious Piles the charming Dainties stand
As if compos'd by some nice Ladies Hand;

315

One on his Plate does half a Cheese-Cake lay,
O'er which he sings tht Praise of Curds and Whey,
Like a great School-Boy reds the childish-Food,
And stroaking of his Belly swears 'tis good.

The next, to sotiate his luxuriant Gust,
Attacks a Pidgeon fortify'd with Crust,
Breaks down the Walls, and does most proudly say,
Thus did the British Heroes take Tournay.

A third, to sweetly sooth his craving Youth,
Ladles down Custard to delight his Tooth;
By Kit's Ambrosia does his Fancy Tune,
And hopes to grow more Wise by dint of Spoon.

On a Minc'd Pie a fourth with Fury falls,
Compares it to that fam'd Escurial Pauls;
That Nook, says he, which does this way extend,
Resembles very much the Western-End;
This the North Porch, and that the side that's South,
Then claps at once the Chancel in his Mouth;
Grinds down the Walls, does in a Passion cry,
Thus shall the Low-Church Triumph o'er the High.

A fifth with Jelly swells his youthful Veins,
Pleases his Palate, and recruits his Reins:
Then fired with Lust he stretches on his Chair,
Crys, My dear Cloe, O! ye Charming Fair:
What Mortal can thy powerful Darts withstand?
My Cloe shall have all at second Hand.

A sixth upon the Pile a Sally makes,
And on his Plate a Currant-Tart he takes.
In pow'rful Words that do the Subject sute,
Admires the Flavour, and extolls the Fruit:
To shew his Zeal affirms the grateful Juice,
Excels the Wine that Gallia's Grapes produce:

316

With a much richer Colour tempts the Eye,
And stains the Palate with a nobler Die,
Altho' his Conscience tells him 'tis a L---

Bocai, the gen'rous Master of the Treat,
Not fix'd to one, picks here and there a Bit:
But lest the female Food, so sweet and fine,
Should rob him of the Flavour of his Wine,
A Mutton-Pye well season'd is the last
Bak'd Toy he chuses to restore his Taste.
For kind Bocai, tho' now he's past his Prime;
Has been an old Sheep-biter in his Time:
Not only in the gainful Skins a Dealer,
But of the Flesh has been a Fellow-Feeler.

Thus once a Week the great Divan of Wits
Inspire their Fancies with their dainty Bits:
Why not since we in sacred Story find
That one fair Apple first inform'd Mankind:
Why then mayn't modern Poets grow more Wise
By the Rich Taste of Kit-Cat's Apple-Pies?
One Cup of Helicon the Bards allow,
Tho' Drank by Coridon that hands the Plow,
Will breed poetick Maggots in his Head,
And make the new rais'd Booby write like Mad:
Therefore since such strange Vertues have barren Ground,
Who knows but Kit-Cat's Halliconion Tarts,
In Time, may make a Dunce a Man of Parts.

Feed on luxurious Heroes of the Pen;
Poets, tho' next to Gods, may eat like Men:
Some think the Race Divine, so Wise and Good.
Owe all their Knowledge to their heav'nly Food,
And that if we, who move beneath the Skies,
Could once to Nector and Ambrosia rise:
One Meal, from Death our fading Limbs would frse,
And give us Mortals Immortality.

317

Who knows but Kit-Cat Pies may do as well,
By them already you in Wit excell;
Triumph like Monarchs o'er the rhyming Crowd,
Who tug like Slaves to sing your Fame aloud,
Attend your Levies, dread your awful Pow'r,
Scribble beneath, whilst you have leave to tow'r,
And proudly have usurp'd from all the Town
The very Right of Scandal and Lampoon:
So Tyrants, when they're too puissant made,
Are not alone content to be obey'd,
But will their Subjects Properties invade.

Go on great Wits, since from the Kit-Cat Board,
A Poet has been made a mighty Lord,
An Honour to the pregnant Sons of Rhyme,
Scarce knows before in any Age of Time:
Who knows but by the Dint of Kit-Cat's Pies,
You may, e'er long, to Gods or Monarchs rise;
Then shall your Fame thro' all the World disperse,
Your own learn'd Pens your mighty Deeds rehearse
And we your Subjects glory in your Verse.

The Beef-Stake Club.

321

On an Ox.

Most noble Creature of the horned Race,
Who labours at the Plow to earn thy Grass,
And yielding to the Yoak shews Man the Way
To bear his servile Chains, and to obey,
Those haughty Tyrants, who usurp the Sway.
Thy sturdy Sinews Till the Farmers Grounds,
To thee, the Grazier owes his hoarded Pounds:
'Tis by thy Labour we abound in Malt,
Whose pow'rful Juice the meaner Slaves exalt;
And when grown fat, and fit to be devour'd
The Pole-Axe frees thee from the teazing Goard:
Thus cruel Man, to recompence thy Pains,
First works thee hard, and then beats out thy Brains.

322

In Praise of Beef.

Of all Provision, Beef's the best
To please an English Palate,
Especially a Stake well drest,
And season'd right with Shallot.

Beef swells our Muscles, fills our Veins,
Does e'ery Way improve us,
Strengthens our Sinews, and our Reins,
And makes the Ladies love us.

Stand off ye Veal-Fed puny Beaus,
The brawny Dutchess's crys,
The Beef-Fed Mortal I espouse,
That yields me large Supplies;

Give me the Spark that Hems and Thumps.
And digs like Slave with Mattock;
The Man that feeds on Bullocks Rumps.
Ne'er fails a Female Buttock.

On a Rump-Stake.

Of all the Parts of noble Beef.
Giv'n by the God's for Man's Relief,
The juicy Rump is still the best
Betwixt the Tail, and horned Crest;
A Stake from thence with whetted Knife,
Cut off by D---y, or his Wife,
Salted and pepper'd to the Tooth
Of him that danes to venture both;
Then broil'd and crusty'd o'er the Fire.
What Prince can richer Food desire?
If hungry, no delicious Dainty
On Earth, will half so well content ye:

323

A Venson Pasty's but a Fool to't
Wild Fowl to th'Pallate is but dull to't:
O Cavaliers! What foolish Fellows
Were you to shew yourselves so Zealous,
In madly burning and disguising
The Rump which only wanted broiling;
As if to prove the Proverb true,
When Cock-a-hoop, you meant to shew
That a Rump Stake in which we glory,
Was always Poison to a Tory.

Beef-Stake Rapsody.

Why should the Gods to Slaves allow
Such Food that's fit for Courtiers,
Tho' Lords, we ne'er were blest, till now
We feed like brawny Porters.

By Vertue of this noble Stake,
How I could hug my Phillis;
For by my Life, I find my Back
As strenuous as my Will is.

326

[Where e'er your pow'rful Muses sing the Praise]

Where e'er your pow'rful Muses sing the Praise
Of good fat Rumps, in your immortal Lays,
There only must Apollo fix the Bays.

Such strenuous Lines so charming soft, and sweet,
That daily flow from your conjunctive Wit,
Proclaim the Pow'r of Beef, that noble Meat.

Your tuneful Songs such deep Impressions make,
And of such aweful, beauteous Strength partake.
Each Stanza seems an Ox, each Line a Stake.

As if the Rump in Slices, broil'd or stew'd
In its own Gravy till divinely good,
Turn'd all to pow'rful Wit, as soon as chew'd.

O! gallant Beef thou mak'st the Soldier Fight.
The Rump Stake Poet, like an Angel Write,
And the kind Husband vigorous at Night.

Thy Juice does not alone our Lives sustain
And stuff our Bellies, when our Guts complain,
But fructifies as well the teeming Brain.

Or sure Apollo's Sons, those charming few,
Who Tune their Lyres, their heavenly Art to shew,
Would ne'er adore thy Rump, as now they do.

To grind thy Gravy out, their Jaws employ,
O'er Heaps of reaking Stakes express their Joy,
And sing of Beef, as Homer did of Troy.

In a right Choice, we shew that we are wise,
Who then can blame such Worthies, who despise,
For noble Beef, that Childish Diet Pies.

327

Wits us'd with Study to be pale and lean,
Cow'rdly and Sneaking, over run with Spleen,
But now they feed on Beef, they look like Men.

And will, in length of Time, not only write
Like Greeks or Romans, but like Heroes fight,
And like Giants give the Fair Delight.

You need no longer then, your Fancies tire;
Some Muse at Court, inflam'd with hot Desire,
Will teach such Bards to tune a diff'rent Lyre.

Thus, by Degrees, may you to Honour rise,
From Stakes of Beef, as some from Kit-Kat Pies,
Since a strong Back, the want of Wit supplies.

Thus, of all Diets, you have choose the chief,
And Ladies know a Woman's best Relief
Is found in him that feeds on noble Beef.

FINIS.

	A compleat and Humorous account Of all the Remarkable Clubs and Societies in the Cities of London and Westminster, From the R---l-S---y down to the Lumber-Troop, &c. Their Original with Characters of the most noted Members, containing great Variety of entertaining Discourses, Frolicks, and Adventures of the principal Managers and Members, a Work of great Use and Curiosity. Compil'd from the original Papers of a Gentleman who frequented those Places upwards of Twenty Years. The seventh edition [by Edward Ward]

University of Virginia Library

THE HISTORY OF CLUBS, &c.

The VERTUOSO's Club.

[So have I heard, when wealthy Dons]

[The clumsy Mason the Foundation lays]

[So have I seen an Antiquary]

[Apollo's Sons are Poets born]

[Thus the grave Searchers into Nature]

Of the Knights of the Order of the Golden-Fleece.

[So buxom Gossips, when they meet]

[Thus Fools, who credit Planet-Gazers]

[In faithless Times, when Crowds miscarry]

[Let Honour still be due to Jason's Knights]

['Tis strange! that Men with Reason blest]

Of the NO-NOSE Club.

[Fall'n Palates now, and Bridge-less Noses]

[One Nose, among such Noseless Guest]

[Mourn all ye No Nos'd Bullies of the Age]

Of the FARTING Club.

[Since he who by deceitful Arts]

[We read that Tubal Cain first found]

Of the Man-Killing Club.

[Bullies like Whores, tho' ne'er so wicked grown]

[The Mariner is aw'd the most]

[No ancient Sodom or Gomorrah]

The SURLY Club.

[Since such wild brutish Herds we see]

[Therefore, since Orators, who wear]

The Atheistical Club.

[So have I heard a Knot of Fellows]

[Thus Libertines, to Vice resign'd]

The Club of Ugly-Faces.

[Since British Ladies, skill'd in Features]

[Should true Proportion ev'ry Mortal grace]

The Split-Farthing Club.

[Thus talk as if they meant to be]

[Tho' Money is the Root of Evil]

The Club of Broken Shopkeepers.

[So wanton Wives that prove unjust]

[Who would not rather chuse to serve]

The Man-Hunters Club.

[How wild is Youth! How wicked and prophane]

['Tis strange a Christian Country, where]

The Yorkshire Club.

[Thus some from Cart, and some from Plough]

The Mock-Heroes Club.

[Should the dead Worthies from the Grave arise]

[And have the Heroes in disgust turn'd Tail]

The BEAUS Club.

[When foppish Apes presume to judge of Wit]

[To be a modish Fop, a Beau compleat]

The Wrangling or Hussel-Farthing Club.

[Thus some, who grow from Boys to Men]

[Ladies who love, as most good Women do]

The Quacks Club: Or, The Physical Society.

[Thus the fam'd Quacks, who by their senseless Bills]

[Of all the Plagues with which our Land is curst]

The Weekly Dancing Club: or Buttock-Ball in St. Giles's

[No sick Man's Chamber, when a hard bound Stool]

[Thus all terrestial Things of Course]

The Bird-Fanciers Club: And their annual Feast.

[How can we blame our infant Sons]

[How fond is eve'ry Fool to be a Guest]

A Poem in Praise of the Art of LYING; written by a Member of the Lying Club.

The Beggars Club.

[Tho' Begging is an honest Trade]

CHORUS.

CHORUS.

CHORUS.

CHORUS.

CHORUS.

CHORUS.

[Since begging Vagrants, who alone depend]

The Scatter-Wit Club.

A Hobby Horse Ditty in Praise of Juniper-Ale.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.