University of Virginia Library

Well—we have reach'd the Precipice at last;
The present Age of Vice obscures the past.
Our dull Forefathers were content to stay,
Nor sin'd, till Nature pointed out the Way:
No Arts they practis'd to forestall Delight,
But stop'd, to wait the Calls of Appetite.
Their Top-Debauches were at best precise,
An unimprov'd Simplicity of Vice.

But this blest Age has found a fairer Road,
And left the Paths their Ancestors had trod.
Nay, We could wear (our Taste so very nice is)
Their old Cast-fashions sooner than their Vices.
Whoring till now a common Trade has been,
But Masquerades refine upon the Sin:
An higher Taste to Wickedness impart,
And second Nature with the helps of Art.
New Ways and Means to Pleasure we devise,
Since Pleasure looks the lovelier in Disguise.
The Stealth and Frolick give a smarter Gust,
Add Wit to Vice, and Elegance to Lust.

In vain, the modish Evil to redress,
At once conspire the Pulpit and the Press:
Our Priests and Poets preach and write in vain;
All Satyr's lost both sacred and profane.
So many various Changes to impart,
Would tire an Ovid's or a Proteus' Art;
Where lost in one promiscuous Whim we see,
Sex, Age, Condition, Quality, Degree.
Where the facetious Crowd Themselves lay down,
And take up every Person but their Own.
Fools, Dukes, Rakes, Cardinals, Fops, Indian Queens,
Belles in Tye-wigs, and Lords in Harlequins;
Troops of Right-Honourable Porters come,
And garter'd Small-coal-Merchants crowd the Room:
Valets adorn'd with Coronets appear,
Lacqueys of State, and Footmen with a Star:
Sailors of Quality with Judges mix,
And Chimney-sweepers drive their Coach and Six.
Statesmen so us'd at Court the Mask to wear,
With less disguise assume the Vizor here.
Officious Hey---r deceives our Eyes,
For his own Person is His best Disguise:
And half the reigning Toasts of equal Grace,
Trust to the natural Vizor of the Face.
Ideots turn Conjurers; and Courtiers Clowns;
And Sultans drop their Handkerchiefs to Nuns.
Starch'd Quakers glare in Furbelows and Silk;
Beaux deal in Sprats, and Dutchesses cry Milk.

But guard thy Fancy, Muse, nor stain thy Pen
With the lewd Joys of this fantastick Scene;
Where Sexes blend in one confus'd Intrigue,
Where the Girls ravish, and the Men grow big:
Nor credit what the idle World has said,
Of Lawyers forc'd, and Judges brought to bed:
Or that to Belles their Brothers breathe their Vows,
Or Husbands thro' mistake gallant a Spouse.
Such dire Disasters, and a numerous Throng
Of like Enormities require the Song.
But the chaste Muse, with Blushes cover'd o'er,
Retires confus'd, and will reveal no more.