Chapter 2

But now the Dancers nimble Feet go round, And with just Measures beat the passive Ground, Each one inclines to different Delights-- Musick the Fair, Sweetmeats the Beau invite; The _Templar_ wisely does his Care enroll, Pockets the Pheasant, and eats up the Fowls Nor will return to join the giddy Rout, 'Till he has eat and drank his _Guinea_ out.

Now Dancing fires the Nymph to softer Joys; The Musick's dull, the Wine and Sweetmeat cloys; _Strephon_ streight takes the Hint, withdraws a-while, By soft Endearments does her Grief beguile; Soon they return more vig'rous than before, Do what they will, she cannot be a Whore.

For _Mahomet_ may dream of heavenly Stews, Where Virgin Rose, soon as it's lost, renews, And shake with every Breath of Air serene, As trembling for the Rapes they've daily seen; When if those past can shake their Height profound, _Ridotto_ sure will fell them to the Ground; Here Art to Nature join'd makes it compleat, And Pyramids and Trees together meet; Statues amidst the thickest Grove arise, And lofty Columns tow'ring to the Skies; Then next an Obelisk its Shade displays, And rustic Rockwork fills each empty Space; Each joins to make it noble, and excells Beaufets for Food, Grotto's for something else.

But hark! the Doors on jarring Hinges turn, All enter in, and the blest Scene's begun; A thousand Lights their livid Flames display, Pour forth their Blaze, and form a mimick Day: Sudden a motley Mixture fills the Place, And Footmen shine as lordly as his Grace; To see the sad Effect and Power of Change, Ladies turn'd Men, in Breeches freely range: Young smooth-chin'd Beaux turn Priests and Fryars, And Nun's chaste Habits hide our Country 'Squires. _Belles, Beaux_, and Sharpers here together play, And Wives throw their good Spouses Wealth away; And when their Cash runs low, and Fate runs cross, They then _Cornute_ 'em to retrieve their Loss.

_Dice_ and Intrigue so mutually are blended, That one begins as soon as t'other's ended: A City Heiress blooming, rich, and fair, Picks up the Cards and Counters with great Care; Against her fate a smooth young Baron, Wit he had none, Beauty he had his share on, A soft clear Skin, a dapper Neck and Waist, In all Things suited to the modern Taste; And most polite, like all our modish Brood, That is, a very Fool, who's very leud: He ogles Miss, she squints, and turns aside, Nor can her Mask her rising Blushes hide; At last (as Bargains here are quickly made) She yeilds to be Caress'd, tho' still afraid; She cries, a private Room's for them most fit, For Reputation is the Glory of a Cit; This only is the Place, where in a Trice, Some Angel steals the Wounds of friendly Vice; The Nymph finds a Relief for all her Pains, And the lost Maidenhead's restor'd again.

But who is he in Bower close confin'd, With a kind Fair t' unbend his troubled Mind, Sure by his Air, his Beauty, and his Grace, It _Phoebus_ is, or some of heavenly Race.

A petty Courtier, of small Estate and Sense, Stood hearkning by, and cry'd it was the P----ce.

Your Pardon, Sir, I knew it not before, For my Mistake depended on his Whore, One had _Latona_ to'ther has _L----r_.

Next to the _Grotto_ let us bend our Eye, The _Grotto_, Patron of Iniquity, Speak O ye Trees with kind refreshing Shade, How many Whores have at your Roots been made; Alas; how small the Number to what now, This one, this happy Night, alone will shew So many, that each conscious _Dryad_ flees, Lest she too should be ravish'd thro' the Trees.

Next rattling Dice invite th' attentive Ear, Lords loudly laugh, as loud the Bullies swear: The Country Knight o'th' Shire sells his Estate, And here with Heart intrepid meets his Fate; So they withdrew to quench their glowing Flame, And to preserve the Honour of her Name; For oh! sad Fate as they ascend the Stairs, At the Room Door her good _Mamma_ appears, Soon as she spies her Child with Looks demure, She charges her to keep her _Vessel pure_: Miss pertly answers to avoid her Doom, _Mamma_, whose Hat and Wig is in the Room? The good old Dame yeilds at the just Reproach, Cries--_Well my Dear, don't take too much!_

Thus various Joys soon waste the fleeting Night, And Sleep and Lust the Croud to Bed invite; Some in their Truckle-Beds to snore all Day, Others in Gambols with their Wh----es to play; The Dunghill Trapes, trickt up like virtuous Trull, If by good Chance, she gets a _Dupe_ or Cull; On Tallyman intrudes twelve Hours more, And for a clean Shift presumes to run a Score.

Sages may say, that Arts and Science fail, And Ignorance and Folly have weigh'd down the Scale: In _England_ they have given new Arts a Rise, And what in Science wants, increase in Vice, And to be great as Angels when they fell, (If not exceed) at _least_ they equal _Hell_.

_FINIS._