The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither the affected city dame advancing,
Who sighs for operas and dotes on dancing,
Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson.
The gamester too, whose wits all high or low,
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw,
Comes here to saụnter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pays
The Mohawk too - with angry phrases stored,
As · Dam'me, Sir,' and, - Sir, I wear a sword;'
Here lesson’d for a while, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.
Here come the sons of scandal and of news,
But fiud no sense- -for they had none to lose.
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser,
Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser;
Has he not seen how you your favour place
On sentimental queens and lords in lace?
Without a star or coronet or garter,
How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?
No high life scenes, no sentiment:—the creature
Still stoops among the low to copy nature.
Yes, he's far gone: --and yet some pity fix,
The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.
C. Tuhittingham, College House, Chiswick.