But here come a group whose deplorable faces, E'en surfeit itself would illumine with graces, See poor Major Liverless come from Bombay, To send his sharp bile and black jaundice away, And gripe the contractor, who ruin'd his health, While he sold (silly booby) his conscience for wealth For Escarides every physician will tell, There's no med'cine on earth like the Harrogate well, But the worm which gnaws gripe will ne'er yield to its mixture, 'Tis lodg'd in the heart an indelible fixture, But truce to my preaching--who makes his approach In such dashing array, and so splendid a coach? 'Tis the great Doctor Solomon stooping to take, A dose of this water by way of a freak, 148 Tho' all the world knows that his own balmy bottle, (More warm to the heart and more sweet to the throttle) Not only cures patients but makes 'em so merry, One spoonful is worth a whole bottle of sherry. All hail to Britannia! her plentiful hive, Has taught many bees like this doctor to thrive, But from all I can learn not one quack shares her honey, More deserving than this, since he's free with his money, "Easy come easy go" is his motto I'm told, Tho' his daughters are portion'd with ingots of gold But I scorn upon men any more to descant, For the Blunderheads always were very gallant, And if beauty and fashion e'er claim'd admiration, From the heart of a man since the days of creation, I'm sure at this time there's the very best reason, To exult in the beauty that blooms here this season, E'en now on parade I delighted behold, Five elegant sisters of exquisite mould, There too are the C--tt--rs sweet innocent creatures, With peace in their bosoms and love in their features And the beautiful L--nds and the L--kes too appear Like goddesses dropt from a delicate sphere; Yet mid the assemblage M--cd--nald we trace, No charmer that equals thy form or thy face, Tho' W--m--ld such majesty dwells in thy mien, And in W--ts--n's mild eyes such true sweetness is seen, That really my muse is perplex'd to declare, How one can excel where so many are fair, Oh woman! _dear_ woman! without you all nature, Would be to my mind like a draught of this water, And may he whose cold heart and dull head would disprove, The magic of beauty the solace of love, And seek from rude man your soft claims to dissever, Be condemn'd without mercy to drink it for ever, Ye are stars of the night! ye are gems of the morn! Ye are dew-drops whose lustre illumines the thorn! And rayless that night is--that morning unblest, Where no beam in your eye lights up bliss in the breast, And the sharp thorn of sorrow sinks deep in the heart Till the sweet lip of woman assuages the smart, 'Tis her's o'er the couch of misfortune to bend, In fondness a lover, in firmness a friend, And prosperity's hour be it ever confest, From woman receives both refinement and zest,