LADY H——a B——e, whose sudden and inexplicable desertion so lately made of Mayfair a dreary waste, hath been seen driving post for Paris. Paris doubtless awaited her with yearning expectation, but yearned vainly. For, upon the highway this bewitching she (_mirabile dictu_) vanished utterly away. Paris received her not, Dieppe knew her not! Whither she vanished, by what means, to what end, at what precise minute of the day or night, or precisely where this astounding disappearance took place, these be questions answerable but by her bewitching self. BUT It is furthermore credibly reported that Sir J——n D——g, whose triumphs in the PAPHIAN FIELDS have made him NOTORIOUS and the ENVY of lesser humans not so fortunate, left Paris abruptly two or three days ago, and hath been observed in company with a pretty SERVING-MAID, a BUXOM WAITING-WENCH whose humble situation in life is completely off-set by the potency of her peerless charms. Sir J——n D——g, quick to recognise the goddess despite her HOMESPUN, is become her very devoted slave and adorer. It is thought that he may carry her eventually London-wards to out-rival the unrivalled BARRASDAILE. _Nota Bene_: He that runs may read! Who seeth through a brick wall cannot be blind. Yet whoso addeth two and two and maketh of them five must be a bad arithmetician. _Verl. Sap._ THE WENCH SUPREME: OR A LAMENT FOR LANGUISHING LADIES Sir J——n D——g who in smug world censorious Hath, wooing, won himself a fame notorious. E’en from one scene of triumphs late hath flown Triumphant still, since flees he not alone; But with him (let not Scandal from Truth blench) Doth bear away a STRAPPING WAITING-WENCH, A wench of wenches she (come aid me, Muse, And teach me what just synonyms to use!) A wench, a maid, a nymph, nay, goddess rather, Though smutty chimney-sweep perchance her father! Thus hath Sir J——n the latest fashion showed And mating so, made serving-maids the mode! Ye sprightlies proud! Ye high-born dames despair, Weep pearly tears and rend your powdered hair. Forgo that fond, that secret-cherished hope That ye yourselves might, one day, thus elope: Since FASHION and Sir J——n do both decree No LADY may, except a WENCH she be!