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

When Pope wrote his tenets,—Heav'n knows where he got 'em,—
And told a vile world we were rakes—at the bottom!
It is clear he knew little of that which he ought,
To suppose silly man claim'd the round of our thought.

The mind of the sex is contrasted in hue,
Hence the impulse that makes 'em look black, pale and blue;
And tho' millions may meet in a Congress as friends,
The main springs of life guide to different ends.
Be the Nymph melancholic, learn'd, beauteous, or gay,
Yet the issue is Pride—be the soil what it may!

Notwithstanding the feverette heats and attacks me,
And spasmodic pains, which I fear will relax me;
I have been to a rout big with high expectations,
Where Folly I found had still—many relations.
The Routs of this Place, like the Balls at Elections,
Comprehend in one mass all degrees and complexions:
The place was Macpharaoh's—the time was last night,
Where we'd much serious play, and much—well-manner'd spite:

Antithetic debating—some snarl—could you doubt it,
While a Feminine Conclave talk'd—how and about it?
Mid the crowd there were some with the Graces at strife,
For this Hostess invites—all the world and his wife:
But no generous impulse, no beatified charms,
Bid her gather her Pyebald associates in arms:
Her motive is obvious—I hope it is rare—
To malign some meek Trader, or crush a poor Play'r:
Some tailleuse pour femme who'd presented her Bill,
Some hard-trodden victim who'd question'd her Will!
“Us Fashion,” thus vaunts she, “are born 'bove controul,
“The Vulgar should never suppose they've a soul;
“Like the Camels of Egypt they're sent for our uses,
“Whose purse gives them strength, credit, spirit, and juices.
“It was but last week one averr'd to her face,
“Lady Birdlime by chance had secreted some lace;

“And when the low wretch, who had fearch'd her, could feel it,
“He seem'd by his looks to imply she would—steal it!
“But we all took her cause up—he now wants a guinea,
“And strives with nine brats like the rash Hugolini.”

Thus breathes this old Sybil—twelve years beyond fifty,
In her vanities prodigal—charities thrifty:
And many a varlet and wench eat her Mutton,
Who care not for Truth or the owner a button:
Though every day drags her nearer the earth,
That day to some indirect deed must give birth.
A popular Doctor, who lives near the Crescent,
Swore her humours were gross, and her muscles putrescent;
When she can't blight her inmates, she pilfers their purses,
And wrestles with Death, midst confederate curses.

In the groupe was the Widow of Major Mac Tweezer,
Who was kill'd by a shot, tho' courageous as Cæsar!
And Miss Dolly Dewlips, with two or three more,
Who are adepts at opening Obloquy's door;
Who can gobble, and wriggle, and triumph, and titter,
When the ear of a Beauty drinks axioms bitter;
When sweet Rural Modesty trembles and blushes,
While her efforts to please giant Impudence crushes.

We had many tall Irish, we'd Colonel O'Trigger,
With Sir Murrough O'Driscol—at least something bigger;
Whose cousin absconded last month with an Heiress,
They were married at Lisle, and are now safe in Paris:
All these are Milesians—I hope they're ne'er sick,
For they say the rich blood in their veins is so thick,

That it flows thro' the art'ries like half-frozen jelly,
And takes up an hour—says Lady O'Kelly—
In journeying down from the heart to the belly.
Some sneeringly made of their Titles a jest,
And seem'd thankful that Black-Legs were now in request:
Tho' I know not I vow what their schemes or their trade is,
They are gen'rous to all, and polite to the Ladies:
And I scarce will believe that the Demons of Knavery
Can be hid 'neath the habits of Bounty and Bravery.

There were Doctors, and Deacons, and Vicars, and Pastors,
With here and there sprinkled some Deans or their Masters;
Who have pour'd down in droves from their Livings, or London,
Their ills to undo—but nine-tenths to be—undone.

Here with spouse under arm the Priest struts like a drake,
With three rosy Spinsters who gape in his wake.
We had Cornet Squewhiff too, who sure you must know,
As a wonderful Wit—and a terrible Beau!
There are many who call him the Window, who view him,
Because, if you please, you can always—see thro' him.