Of rotten eggs, brimstone, and salts make a hash, And 'twill form something like this delectable mash Nothing else in this world I will wager a pasty, So good in effect, ever tasted so nasty. But ah! tis the pencil of Bunb'ry alone, By which the sweet stream and its pow'rs can be shewn, Nor does the whole kingdom afford I am sure, One scene like this well for a caricature, All ages, and sexes, all ranks, and degree, All forms, and all sizes distorted you see, Some grinning, some splutt'ring, some pulling wry faces, In short 'tis a mart for all sorts of grimaces, But all you conceive, of age, infancy, youth, In contortion and whim must fall short of the truth, One screws up his lips like the mouth of a purse, While his neighbour's fierce grin gives the threat of a curse, And a third gasping begs with his eyes turn'd to heaven, That his stomach will keep what so lately was given But feeling the rebel will spurn at his pray'r, Throws the rest of his bumper away in despair. But woe to the wight of more delicate notions, When he sees how the well-women deal out their potions, This levelling tribe of a democrat race, From the red nos'd postillion, up to her Grace Feeds each from one glass, without washing, or rincing, And the sybil but laughs if you make any wincing, From the modest who issue from cheap Mrs. Binns' To the great ones who drive from High Harrogate Inns, Where a difference far more essential is found, From the sick, to the well, the same cup travels round, From breath that would poison a Hottentot king To breath that is sweeter than violets in spring, But as sulphur prohibits all sorts of infection, The rational say "there's no proper objection, 116 To mingling _en masse_ with all sorts of diseases, Tho' the stomach may make what objection she pleases." Now turn my dear mother with me and survey This company blended of grave and of gay, See Alderman Gobble, and Counsellor Puffing, Who came to this well as a penance for stuffing, And poor Captain Brandylove come to recruit, Swears the Cognac grape was the forbidden fruit, Here gentlemen jockies who ride into fevers, And surfeits obtain from their noble endeavours, Such as Timothy Twig'em Esquire of our town, And my Lord Spatterdashit that peer of renown, And Sir Gilbert O'Fetlock with coach driving coat, With many more whips of distinction and note, Come swarming around just to take off their glasses, Make matches for horses, and bets upon asses.