A postscript to the new Bath guide :: :: University of Virginia Library

All hail happy Bath and its wonderful Waters!
That to God's visitations would never give quarters;
See Malady shrinks—who rode post to infect us,
As the Demon retires when Randolphs correct us.

It is said that when Hogarth, who sported with Nature,
Drew the outréd contour of a prominent feature,

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The curious not long o'er the portraiture hover'd—
Be it nose, chin, or eyebrow, the end was discover'd:
Though the points of the fool were but partially shewn,
His intent was embrac'd, and the dolt was well known.

'Mid the following yahoos I bring 'fore the eye,
There is much that's mysterious, and much to descry:
Whom I mean or do not, the observant must guess,—
Do you find the wearer, and I'll find the dress.

I have been to King's ball, and the Lower-Rooms seem'd
An enchantment in ether where meteors gleam'd:
There star with star mingled, and ray mix'd with ray,
Till Beauty made night more resplendent than day.
As the Graces curvetted I stood in surprize,
In doubt which were brightest—their jewels or eyes.

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All the Fogrums are here, and came drest to the ball,
Sir Phil—Lady Bosky—Miss Charlotte—and all:
You must know that they value themselves on their blood,
For the Fogrums have triumph'd since Dan Noah's flood.

Miss Rosa Randan was involv'd with the rest,
Whose o'er-righteous movements make caution a jest;
She conjures up Ills, though she breathes but to fear 'em,
And sees Improprieties 'fore she comes near 'em;
Too studious anticipates moral offence,
And is held from all joy—by refinement of sense:
Her immaculate toils to be gay and polite,
Are like suburb civilities—awkward, but right:
When I paid those devoirs which were legally due,
She trembling replied—with her body askew;
And blush'd, like Carlisle, caught in Ribaldry's net,
Or Lady Bumblanche when she buys—a bidet;

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Her austere education is surely distressing,
Which stands, like a cork, 'twixt her wish and the blessing.

The big Widow Hautgout, who's nick-nam'd Crushpillion,
Would present her huge front to make up a cotillion:
As I saw the Dame flounder, and struggle, and blow,
The weight of her frame shook the walls to and fro;
With a kerchief—Necessity sent as a boon,
She mopp'd the rank floods from her blazing full-moon.

We'd a mundungus Sappho—a limb of flirtation,
Who rides on a fiddlestick through the creation;
Who smears with lame couplets Italian walls;
And, like the foul snail, leaves her filth where she crawls;
Who makes a dead sage hallow personal malice,
As of old hell-born Priests bore the bane on the chalice;

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Who mumbles her sweetmeat and growls for the crumbs,
Though what holds the zest cleaves around her worn gums.
But shall apathis'd Prudence moan females are frail?
When the serpent of knowledge was mov'd by—its tail!

There was Charles the attractive—that son of good-humour,
With his purple proboscis, and mouth full of—rumour;
The wise greet his jest as kine solace in clover,
For the wit from his mind like a fountain runs over;
And some in broad day run with Rapture to fetch it,
While others employ Recollection to catch it:
When Care to this paragon sends a hard crust,
To masticate as mortals must:
To shun the woe which follows it,
He soaks it in wine, and swallows it.