Ex otio Negotium :: :: University of Virginia Library

Gently my Muse! 'tis but a tender piece,
A paradox of Fumes and Ambergreece.
A cobweb-tinder at a touch takes fire,
The tumbling wherligig of blinde desire.
Vulcan's Pandora in a christal shrine,
Or th'old Inn faced with a new painted signe.
The spotted voyder of the Term: In short
Chymical nature phisick'd into Art.

But hold rude Satyr, here's a Hector comes,
A Cod-peice Captain that with her shares sums,
One claims a Joynture in her sins, the foile
That puts her off, like the old man ere while
That with a dagger Cloak, and ho-boy gapes
And squeeks for company for the Jack an Apes.
This is the feirce St. George, fore runs the waggon,
And, if occasion be, shall kill the Dragon.
Don Mars the great assendant on the road
When Thomass's teem begins to jog abroad.
The hinter at each turn of Coven Garden,
The Club pickearer, the robust Church warden
Of Lincolne's Inn back corner, where he angles
For Cloaks and Hats, and the smale gam eentangles

This is the Citty Usher straid to enter
The small drink countrey squires of the first venter,

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And dubs them bach'lor-Knight of the black Jugg,
Mans them into an oath, and the French shrugg,
Makes them fine graduates in smock impudence,
And gelds them of their puny mothers sense.
So that when two terms more, and forty pound
Reads them acquainted all Gomorrha round,
Down to their wondring friends at last they range,
With breeding just enough to speak them strange,
And drown a younger brother in a look
Kick a poor Lacquey, and berogue the Cook,
Top a small cry of Tennants that dare stir
In no phrase now, but save your Worship Sir.

But to return: By this my Lady's up,
Has swom the Ocean of the Cawdle Cup,
Convers'd with every washing, every ground,
And Fucus in the Cabinet's to be found,
Has laid the fix'd complexion for the day,
Her breech rings high Change and she must away.

Now down the Channel towards the Strand she glides,
Flinging her nimble glances on both sides,
Like the death-darting Cockatrice that slye
Close Enginere that murders through the eye.

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The first that's tickled with her rumbling wheels
Is the old Statesman, that in slippers reels,
He wire-drawes up his jawes, and snufs and grins,
And sighing smacks, but for my aged shins,
My Conclave of diseases, I would boord
Your lofty Galley: Thus I serv'd my Lord—.
But mum for that, his strength will scarce supply
His back to the Belcone, so god b'wy.

By this she has survey'd the golden Globe,
And finding no temptation to disrobe,
To Durham New Old Stable on she packs,
Where having winc'd and breath'd the what d'yee lacks,
Rusled and bounced a turn or two in ire,
She mounts the Coach like Phaethon all on fire,
Fit for th'impressions of all sorts of evill,
And whirles up tow'rds the Lawyers and the Devill.
There Ployden in his laced Ruff starch'd on edg
Peeps like an Adder through a quickset hedg,
And brings his stale demur to stop the course
Of her proceedings with her yoak of horse;
Then fals to handling of the case, and so
Shews her the posture of her over-throw,
But yet for all his Law and double Fees
Shee'le bring him to joyn issue on his knees:
And make him pay for expedition too,
Thus the gray fox acts his green sins anew.

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And well he scapes if all his Norman sense
Can save the burning of his Evidence.
But out at last shee's hudled in the dark,
Man'd like a Lady Client by the Clerk.
And so the nimble youngster at the parting
Extorts a smack perhaps before the Carting.

Down Fleet-street next she rowls with powderd crest,
To spring clip'd-half-crowns in the Cuckow's nest
For now the Heroes of the yard have shut
Their shops, and loll upon their bulks to put
The Ladyes to the squeek, if so perhaps
Their mistris can spare them from their laps.
Not far she waves and sailes before she clings
With the young tribe for pendents, lace and rings,
But there poor totterd Madam, though to late,
She meets the topsi-turvey of her state,
For the calm'd Boyes, having nought left to pay,
Are forced to pawn her, & so run away.
On this the dreadful Drawer soon appears,
Like her ill Genius about her ears,
With a long bill of Items that affright
Worse than a skull of Halberds in the night.
For now the Jay's compell'd to untruss all
The tackling upon tick from every stall,
Each sharing Broker of her borrow'd dress
Seems to doe pennance in her nakedness.
For not a Lady of the noble game
But is composed at least of all Long-lane:

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An Animal together blow'd and made,
And up'd of all the shreds of every Trade.

Thus purely now her self, homewards she packs,
Exciz'd in all the Dialects of her knacks:
Squeez'd to the utmost thred, and latest grain,
Like Meteors toss'd to their first grit again.

A lane, a lane, she comes, summ'd down to nought,
But shame and a thin under petticoat.
But least I should pursue her to the quick,
I pass: The chase lies now too near the nick
In pitty Satyr then thy lash let fall:
He knowes her best that scans her not at all.
And though thou seemst discourteous not to save her,
No matter, when thou leav'st there's one will have her.