We walk’d thro’ half a dozen streets without meeting any thing worthy of observation. At last my friend _Nokes_, pointed to a little edifice, which exactly resembles Dr. _Burgess_’s conventicle in _Russel-Court_; says he, your old acquaintance _Tony Lee_, who turn’d presbyterian parson, upon his coming into these quarters, holds forth most notably here every _Sunday_; _Jacob Hall_ and _Jevon_ are his clerks, and chant it admirably. Mother _Stratford_, the duchess of _Mazarine_, my lord _Warwick_, and Sir _Fleetwood_, are his constant hearers; and to _Tony_’s everlasting honour be it spoken, he delivers his fire and brimstone with so good a grace, splits his text so judiciously, turns up the whites of his eyes so theologically, cuffs his cushion so orthodoxly, and twirls his band-strings so primitively, that _Pluto_ has lately made him one of his chaplains in ordinary. From this we crossed another street, which one may properly enough call the _Bow-street_, or _Pall-Mall_ of _Brandinopolis_. No sawcy tradesman or mechanick dares presume to live here, but ’tis wholly inhabited by fine gaudy fluttering sparks, and fine airy ladies; who in no respect are inferior to yours in _Covent-Garden_. When the sky is serene, and not a breath of wind stirring, you may see whole covies of them displaying their finery in the street; but at other times you never see ’em our of a chair, for fear of discomposing their commodes or periwigs. We had not gone twenty paces, before we met three flaming beaux of the first magnitude, the like of whom we never saw at the _Vourthoot_ at the _Hague_, the _Tuilleries_ at _Paris_, or the _Mall_ in St. _James_’s-park. They were all three in black (for you must know we are in deep mourning here for the death of my lady _Proserpine_’s favourite monkey) but he in the middle, tho’ he had neither face nor shape to qualify him for a gallant: for he had a phyz as forbidden as beau _Whitaker_, and was as thick about the waste, as the fat squab porter at the _Griffin_-tavern in _Fuller’s-Rents_, yet he made a most magnificent figure: His periwig was large enough to have loaded a camel, and he had, bestowed upon it at least a bushel of powder, I warrant you. His sword-knot dangled upon the ground, and his steenkirk that was most agreeably discolour’d with snuff from top to bottom, reach’d down to his waste; he carry’d his hat under his left-arm, walk’d with both his hands in the wastband of his breeches, and his cane that hung negligently down in a string from his right-arm, trail’d most harmoniously against the pebbles, while the master of it, tripping it nicely upon his toes, was humming to himself, _Oh, ye happy happy groves,_ _Witness of our tender loves._