grown too bold, Swears if he has it not, he will reveal, And to his Master tell a dismal Tale; Madam, reluctant, gives him up the Paper; He at her Folly laughs, and cuts a Caper.

Sylvia, a Lady, kept by twenty Beaux, Who never yet could brook the Marriage Noose, By each a Ticket offer’d, scorns ’em all, In hopes some Fool at last will Victim fall, And, kindly offer Treat and Ticket too, Which to her Charms she thinks most justly due; At last a brisk young Templar full of Fire, Whom Writs with Money, Wine with Love inspire, Address’d the Dame, she yeilds his glowing Charms, And for a Ticket flies into his Arms: 

  So every dapper Fop and brawny Rake
  Will Tickets to their Ladies Presents make;
  To Sin, the only certain Dedication,
  To every gentle Mistress in the Nation,
  From Suburb Whore, to ranting Dame of Fashion;
  For none’s so niece as to refuse the Suit,
  But grasps the Tree tho’ ’tis forbidden Fruit.

Near where the Thames in pleasant Windings runs, Near where the famous Glass-house fiercely burns, (Which to the Love of poor desponding Swains, An Emblem terrible, but just retains.) Near where fam’d Vaux was to have fled, With lighted Match, soon as he’d done the Deed; Whence some pretend to say by second Sight, That it foreshew’d the Fate attends this Night, ’Cause here the Fair will many Matches light.

Spring-Gardens lie shaded with verdant Trees, That nod their reverend Heads at every Breeze; Embassadors like Turks hence send Express, And Ministers of State like Devils dress—­

  Should some wild Indian see the various Scene,
  He’d swear all Nations of the Earth do here convene,
  And take for quite reverse this medley Farce,
  Think Strumpers Saints, or catstick’d Beau a Mars.

  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;