CURIOSITY IN RAGS.
Curiosity depicted—Lamentable Confusion at Carlton-House during the Exhibition after the Grand Fête—A sublime naval Comparison—Fortitude of the Ladies—A Compliment to the undaunted courage of Lord Yarmouth and Colonel Bloomfield—An Address to the Muse—A circumstantial Account of the Ladies' Progress in their vulgar and penitential Robes, from Carlton-House to their respective Habitations—A short and decent prayer for his Royal Highness.
What evils Curiosity produceth!
Yet nothing can the madding rage restrain:
Whate'er the danger, not a Nymph refuseth;
Though Death frown'd near, to cut her form in twain.
Vain were the efforts of a Milton's pen,
That paints a diabolic rout so well,
To give with truth the horrors of the scene;
Such squeezing, swearing, tearing, squeak, and yell.
Ah me, what petticoats were lost, and torn;
Pathetic subject for the mournful Muse,
Gowns and pelisses felt a state forlorn;
Baskets of bonnets, and whole tubs of shoes.
The golden chain forsook the bosom's charms,
With many a necklace form'd of pearls and beads:
Bracelets deserted from their taper arms,
And wigs in tatters left their lovely heads.
Thus at the glorious struggle of the Nile,
On which our British hist'ry justly brags;
Yard-arm and yard-arm meeting, (dread turmoil!)
The sails and rigging were reduc'd to rags.
Regardless of their Backs, amidst the squeeze;
As Velvet soft, and fair as Alpine Snow;
The kallipuge
charms, the legs, and knees;
They urge their dang'rous way to see the show.
Their limbs so delicate, and skin so white,
And then their swelling bosoms all so bare,
Fix'd (for what youth could wink on such a sight?)
Fix'd ev'ry orb of vision on the stare.
Yes: ev'n with common decency to war,
Did novelty their gentle bosoms harden;
For soon indeed were numbers of the Fair,
Like Mother Eve when ent'ring Eden's garden.
Yet if the mother of the World could err,
(For in his trap old Satan surely caught her,)
We should not therefore make a mighty stir;
But yield to mercy and forgive the daughter.
Yet let me sing in thunder of applause,
How Yarmouth, Bloomfield, not a fear betray'd;
But through the windows, stripp'd of all their gauze
And muslins, lugg'd full many a fainting Maid.
Now, if you please, my Lady Muse, relate
What did the Nymphs who all their vestments lost;
As many a Nymph, the lean as well as fat,
Saw not the sight, by cruel Fortune crost.
Forc'd to their homes unwilling to depart,
They stalk'd forlorn along the grinning streets,
Deep-blushing, loaded with a heavy heart,
Huddled in aprons, table-cloths, and sheets.
Yea, verily, the Nymphs were forc'd to roam;
Yea, left by sad misfortune in the lurch;
In sorrow, all bare-headed, to their home,
As though they had done penance in a church.—
Such was the scene, with which no scene compares;
And long indeed will Dame and Damsel rue it:
Such was the piteous posture of affairs;
Pray God, the modest Regent did not view it!
