No more shall _Duchesses_ to _Bath_ repair, Or fly to _Tunbridge_ to procure an Heir; _Spring-Gardens_ can supply their every Want, For here whate'er they ask the Swain wil grant, And future Lords (if they'll confess the right) Shall owe their Being to this blessed Night; Hence future Wickedness shall take its Rise, (For Masquerade to this is paultry Vice) An Aera of new Crimes shall hence begin, And _H----gg----r_ chief Devil be of Sin; No more shall Ugliness be his Disgrace, His Head mends all the Frailties of his Face; When Masques and Balls to their Conclusion drew, To this his last Resort the Hero flew; So by degrees the Errant Knights of old To Glory rose, and by Degrees grew bold; A while content the common Road they trod, 'Till some great Act at last confess the _God_. Now Painters _work_,--and dine, that starv'd before, And Tallymen supply each needy Whore-- Fam'd _Covent-Garden_ droops with mournful Look, Nor can St. _James's_ her great Rival brook: Each _Duck_ and D----ss, quacks to different Tunes, One _claps her Wings_ for Love, the other swoons; Each _Vintner_ storms and swears he is undone, Vollies of Oaths speak loud the Drawer's Moan; _Porter_ who us'd to search for needful Girls, Now sucks his Fingers, or his Apron twirls, Bemoans his Loss of Business, and with Sighs, In Box imprison'd lays the useless Dice. _Spring-Garden_ now alone does all invite The Cit, the Wit, the Rake, the Fool, the Knight: No Lady, that can pawn her Coat or Gown, Will rest 'till she has laid the Money down: Each Clerk will to the Joints his Fingers work, And Counsellors find out some modern Querk, To raise the Guinea, and to see the _Grot_, And 'mongst the _Belles_ to slant it at _Ridolt_. Here Seamstresses and Maids together vie, And the spruce 'Prentice shines in Sword and Tye: Bandy'd in Lace the City Dame appears, Her Hair genteelly frizzled round her Ears; Her Gown with _Tyrian_ Dyes most richly stain'd, Glitt'ring with Orient Pearl from Orphans gain'd. _My Lord_, to oblige his Spouse, takes Tickets three, Crys, one's for you my Love, and one for me, The third dispose as you shall best adjudge, Shew where you're pleas'd, and where you owe a Grudge: _Madam_ elate, thinks she'll be kind to _Betty_, To hide the Slips she made with Spark i'th' City: But _Stallion Tom_, who well knew how to scold, And by his Mistress's Favour grown too bold, Swears if _he_ has it not, he will reveal, And to his Master tell a dismal Tale; _Madam_, reluctant, gives him up the Paper; He at her Folly laughs, and cuts a Caper.