The Earl-King, fearing the tumult should ever end, Sends her his brother, while he keeps away; Honour'd by courtesy, by his gown reverend, But neither by nature, came sanctified Grey, With the Norwich Archdeacon, Who thinks he may speak on, Because, like a beacon, His head is so light; And sea-beaten Madocks, And some other sad dogs, Who (like stinking haddocks) By rotting grow bright. Damsels of Marybone, deck'd out in articles, Borrow'd of brokers for shillings and pence; The eye of vulgarity any thing smart tickles; Drabs love a ride at another's expence; So swarming like loaches, In ten hackney coaches, They make their approaches And pull at the bell; And then they flaunt brave in, Preceded by Craven, And, clean and new shaven, Topographical Gell. Next came a motley assemblage of what I call Mummers, and mountebanks, wildly array'd; Hod-men, and coal-heavers, landmen and nautical, Tag-rag and bobtail, a strange masquerade! A rout of sham sailors, Escap'd from their jailors, As sea-bred as tailors, In Shropshire or Wilts: But mark Oldi's smile and hers, Greeting, as Highlanders, Half a score Mile-Enders, Shivering in kilts! Noel and Moore are the pink of her quality, Judge what must be the more mean partisans! What sweepings of kennels--what scums of rascality-- Hired and attired to enact artisans; Sham painters, and stainers, Smiths, coopers, cordwainers, And glaziers--chief gainers, In such a turmoil, Though chandlers and joiners, And forgers and coiners, And pocket-purloiners, All share in the spoil. Verdant green-grocers, all mounted on Jack-asses, (Lately called Guildfords, in honour of Fred,) Sweet nymphs of Billingsgate, tipsy as Bacchuses, Roll'd in like porpoises, heels over head! And the better to charm her, Three tinkers in armour, All hired by Harmer, Brave Thistlewood's friend; Those stout men of metal, Who think they can settle The State, if a kettle They're able to mend.