But Sunday sets the pris'ner free, He shows in Park, and laughs with glee At creditors and Bum. Then who of any taste can bear The coarse, low jest and vulgar stare Of all the city scum, Of fat Sir Gobble, Mistress Fig, In buggy, sulky, coach, or gig, With Dobbin in the shay? At ev'ry step some odious face, Of true mechanic cut, will place Themselves plump in your way. Now onward to the Serpentine, A river straight as any line, Near Kensington, let's walk; Or through her palace gardens stray, Where elegantes of the day Ogle, congee, and talk. Here imperial fashion reigns, Here high bred belles meet courtly swains By assignation. Made at Almack's, Argyle, or rout, While Lady Mother walks about In perturbation, Watching her false peer, or to make A Benedict of some high rake, To miss a titled prize. Here, cameleon-colour'd, see Beauty in bright variety, Such as a god might prize. Here, too, like the bird of Juno, Fancy's a gaudy group, that you know, Of gay _marchands des modes_. Haberdashers, milliners, fops From city desks, or Bond-street shops, And belles from Oxford-road, Crowds here, commingled, pass and gaze, And please themselves a thousand ways; ~191~~ Some read the naughty rhymes Which are on ev'ry alcove writ, Immodest, lewd attempt at wit, Disgraceful to the times. Here Scotland's dandy Irish Earl,{50} With Noblet on his arm would whirl, And frolic in this sphere; With mulberry coat, and pink cossacks, The red-hair'd Thane the fair attacks, F-'s ever on the leer; And when alone, to every belle The am'rous beau love's tale will tell, Intent upon their ruin. Beware, Macduff, the fallen stars! Venus aggrieved will fly to Mars; There's mischief brewing. What mountain of a fair is that, Whose jewels, lace, and Spanish hat, Proclaim her high degree, With a tall, meagre-looking man, Who bears her reticule and fan? That was Maria D-, Now the first favourite at court,