University of Virginia Library

Once how I doated on this Jilting Town,
Thinking no Heaven was out of London known;
Till I her Beauties artificial found,
Her Pleasure's but a short and giddy round;
Like one who has his Phillis long enjoy'd,
Grown with the fulsom repetition cloy'd;
Love's Mists then vanish from before his Eyes,
And all the Ladies Frailties he descries:
Quite surfeited with Joy, I now retreat
To the fresh Air, a homely Country Seat,
Good Hours, Books, harmless Sports, & wholsom Meat.
And now at last I have chose my proper Sphere,
Where Men are plain and rustick, but sincere.
I never was for Lies nor Fawning made,
But call a Wafer Bread, and Spade a Spade.
I tell what merits got Lord—his place,
And laugh at marry'd M---ve to his Face.
I cannot vere with ev'ry change of State,
Nor flatter Villains, tho' at Court they're great:
Nor will I prostitute my Pen for Hire,
Praise Cromwell, damn him, write the Spanish Fryar:
A Papist now, if next the Turk should reign,
Then piously transverse the Alcoran.
Methinks I hear one of the Nation cry,
Be Christ, this is a Whiggish Calumny,
All Virtues are compriz'd in Loyalty.
Might I dispute with him, I'de change his Note,
I'de silence him, that is, he'd cutt my Throat.
This powerfull way of reasoning never mist,
None are so positive but then desist,
As I will, e're it come to that extreme;
Our Folly, not our Misery is our Theam.
Well may we wonder what strange Charm, what Spell,
What mighty Pleasures in this London dwell,
That Men renounce their Ease, Estates and Fame,
And drudge it here to get a Fopling's Name?
That one of seeming sense advanc'd in years,
Like a Sir Courtly Nice in Town appears:
Others exchange their Land for tawdry Cloaths,
And will in spight of Nature pass for Beauxs.
Indulgent Heaven, who ne'er made ought in vain,
Each Man for something proper did ordain;
Yet most against their Genius blindly run,
The wrong they chuse, and what they're made for shun.
Thus Ar---n thinks for State affairs he's fit;
Hewit for Ogling, C---ly for a Wit:
But 'tis in vain, so wise, these Men to teach,
Besides the King's learn'd Priests should only preach.

We'll see how Sparks the tedious day employ,
And trace them in their warm pursuit of Joy;
If they get drest (with much ado) by Noon,
In quest of Beauty to the Mall they run,
Where (like young Boys) with Hat in hand they try
To catch some flutt'ring gawdy Butterfly.
Thus Gray pursues the Lady with a Face,
Like forty more, and with the same success,
Whose jilting Conduct in her Beauty's spite,
Looses her fame, and get's no pleasure by't.
The secret Joys of an Intrigue she slights,
And in an Equipage of Fools delights
So some vain Heroes for a vain command,
Forfeit their Conscience, Liberty and Land.
But see high Mass is done, in Crowds they go,
What, all these Irish, and Mall Howard too?
'Tis very late, to Lockets let's away,
The Lady Frances comes, I will not stay.
Expecting Dinner, to discourse they fall,
Without respect of morals censuring all:
The Nymph they lov'd, the Friend they hug'd before,
He's a vain Coxcomb, she's a common Whore:
No obligation can their Jeasts prevent;
Wit, like unruly Wind in Bowels pent,
Torments the bearer till he gives it vent;
Tho' this offends the Ear as that the Nose,
No matter, 'tis for Ease and out it goes.
But what they talk (too nauseous to rehearse)
I leave for the late Ballad-writers Verse.
After a dear bought Meal they hast away,
To a desert of Ogling at the Play:
What's here which in the Box's front I see,
Deform'd old Age, deseases Infamy.

W---k, N---th, Paget, Hinton, Martin, Willis,
And that Epitome of Lewdness, Elly's.
I'll not turn that way, but observe the Play,
Pox, 'tis a tragick Farce of Banks to day:
Besides some Irish Wits the Pit invade
With a worse Din than Cat-call Serenade.
I must be gone, let's to Hide Park repair,
If not good company, we'll find good Air:
Here with affected Bow and Side-Glass look,
The self-conceited Fool is easily took.
There comes a Spark with six in Tarsels drest,
Charming the Ladies Hearts with dint of Beast:
Like Scullers on the Thames with frequent bow,
They labour, tugg, and in their Coaches row,
To meet some fair one, still they wheel about,
Till she retires, and then they hurry out.

But next we'll visit where the Beauxs in order come,
('Tis yet too early for the drawing-room)
Here Nowels and Olivia's abound;
But one plain Manly is not to be found:
Flattr'ng the present, the absent they abuse,
And vent their Spleen and Lies, pretending News:
Why, such a Lady's pale and wou'd not dance;
This to the Country gone, and that to France:
Whose marry'd, slip'd away, or mist at Court,
Others Misfortunes thus afford them sport:
A new Song is produc'd, the Author guest,
The Verses and the Poet made a Jest.
Live Laureat E---er, in whom we see,
The English can excell Antiquity.
Dryden writes Epick, Wosley Odes in vain,
Virgil and Horace still the chief maintain:
He with his matchless Poems has alone,
Bavius and Mevius in their way out-done.

But now for Cards, and play they all propose,
While I who never in good Breeding lose,
Who cannot civilly sit still and see
The Ladies pick my Purse and laugh at me,
Pretending earnest business drive to Court,
Where those who can do nothing else resort.
The English must not seek preferment there,
For Mack's and O's all places destin'd are.
No more we'll send our Youth to Paris now,
French Principles and Breeding once wou'd do:
They for Improvement must to Ireland sail,
The Irish Wit and Language now prevail.
But soft my Pen, with care this Subject touch,
Stop where you are, you soon may write too much.
Quite weary with the hurry of the day,
I to my peacefull home direct my way;
While some in Hack and Habit of Fatigue,
May have (but oft pretend) a close Intrigue;
Others more open to the Tavern scower,
Calling for Wine, and every Man his Whore,
As safe as those with quality perhaps,
For N---rgh says great Ladies can give Claps:
Somewhere they're kept, and many where they keep,
Most see an easie Mistress e'er they Sleep.
Thus Sparks may dress, dance, play, write, fight, get drunk,
But all the mighty Pother ends in Punk.