When they describe the state of eastern Lords,
Pomp and magnificence fhould fwell their words;
And when they paint the ferpent's fcaly pride,
Their lines fhould hifs, their numbers smoothly slide;
But they, unmindful of Poetick rules,
Defcribe alike Mockaws, and great Moguls.
Dampier would thus, without ill-meaning fatire,
Drefs forth in fimple file the Petit-maitre.
In Paris, there's a race of animals.
(I've seen them at their Operas and Balls
They stand erect, they dance when-e'er they walk,
Monkeys in action, perroquets in talk
They're crown'd with feathers, like the cockatoo,
And, like camelions, daily change their hue;
From patches jufly plac'd they borrow graces,
And with vermilion lacker d'er their faces,
This cuftem, as we vifibly difcern,
They, by frequenting Ladies toilettes, learn.
Thus might the trav'ler eafy truth impart.
Into the fubject let me nobly ftart!
How happy lives the man, how fure to charm,
Whofe knot embroider'd flutters down his arm!
On him the Ladies cast the yielding glance,
Sigh in his fongs, and languish in his dance;
While wretched is the Wit, contemn'd, forlorn,
Whofe gummy hat no scarlet plumes adorn;
No broider'd flowers his worsted ankle grace,
Nor cane embofs'd with gold directs his pace;
No Lady's favour on his fword is hung.
What, though Apollo dictate from his tongue,
His wit is fpiritlefs and void of grace,
Who wants the affurance of brocade and lace.
While the gay fop genteely talks of weather,
The fair in raptures doat upon his feather;
Like a Court-Lady though he write and spell,
His minuet step was fashion'd by † Marcell;
He dreffes, fences. What avails to know?
For women chufe their men, like filks, for fhow.
Is this the thing, you cry, that Paris boasts?
Is this the thing renown'd among our toafts?
For fuch a flutt'ring fight we need not roam ;
Our own affemblies fhine with thefe at home.
Let us into the field of beauty start;
Beauty's a theme that ever warm'd my heart.
Think not, ye Fair, that I the sex accufe:
How shall I fpare you, prompted by the Mufe?
(The Mufes all are Prades) fhe rails, the frets,
Amidst this fprightly nation of coquettes ;
Yet let not us their loofe coquett❜ry blame;
Women of ev'ry nation are the fame.
You ask me, if Parifian dames, like ours,
With rattling dice prophane the Sunday's hours;
If they the gamefter's pale-ey'd vigils keep,
And ftake their honour while their husbands fleep?
Yes, Sir; like English Toasts, the dames of France
Will rifque their income on a fingle chance.
Nannette last night a tricking Pharaoh play'd,
The cards the Taillier's fliding hand obey'd,
To-day her neck no brilliant circle wears,
Nor the ray-darting pendant loads her ears.
Why does old Chloris an Affembly hold?
Chloris each night divides the fharper's gold.
Corinna's cheek with frequent loffes burns,,
And no bold Trente le va her fortune turns.
Ah too rash virgin! where's thy virtue flown?
She pawns her perfon for the sharper's loan.
Yet who with justice can the fair upbraid,
Whofe debts of honour are so duely paid?
But let me not forget the Toillette's cares,
Where art each morn the languid cheek repairs:
This red's too pale, nor gives a distant grace;
Madame to day puts on her Opera face;
From this we scarce extract the milk-maid's bloom,
Bring the deep dye that warms across the room:
Now flames her cheek, fo ftrong her charms prevail,
That on her gown the filken rofe looks pale !
Not but that France fome native beauty boasts,
Clermont and Charolais might grace our Toasts.
When the sweet-breathing spring unfolds the buds,
Love flies, the dufty town for fhady woods.
Then Totenham fields with roving beauty fwarm,
And Hampftead Balls the city virgin warm,
Then Chelsea's meads o'erhear perfidious vows,
And the preft grafs defrauds the grazing cows.
'Tis here the fame; but in a higher sphere,
For ev'n Court Ladies fin in open air.
What Cit with a gallant would truft his spouse
Beneath the tempting shade of Greenwich boughs?
What Peer of France would let his Duchefs rove,
Where Bologne's clofeft woods invite to love?
But here no wife can blast her husband's fame,
Cuckold is grown an honourable name.
Stretch'd on the grass the shepherd fighs his pain,
And on the grafs what fhepherd fighs in vain ?
On Chloe's lap here Damon lay'd along,
Melts with the languifh of her am'rous fong;
There Iris flies Palemon through the glade,
Nor trips by chance-'till in the thickeft fhade;
Here Celimene defends her lips and breast,
For kiffes are by ftruggling clofer preft;
Alexis there with eager Aame grows bold,
Nor can the nymph his wanton fingers hold;
Be wife, Alexis; what, so near the road!
Hark, a coach rolls, and husbands are abroad!
Such were our pleasures in the days of yore,
When am'rous Charles Britannia's fceptre bore;
The nightly scene of joy the Park was made,
And Love in couples peopled every shade.
But fince at Court the rural tafte is loft,
What mighty fums have velvet couches coft!
Sometimes the Tuillerie's gaudy walk I love,
Where I through crowds of rustling manteau's rove ;
As here from fide to fide my eyes I caft,
And gaz'd on all the glitt'ring train that paft.
Sudden a fop fteps forth before the reft;
I knew the bold embroidery of his veft.
He thus accofts me with familiar air,
Parbleau! on a fait cet habit en Angleterre!
Quelle manche! ce galon eft groffiérement rangé;
Voila quelque chofe de fort beau et degagé!
This faid: On his red heel he turns, and then
Hums a foft minuet, and proceeds agen.
Well; now you've Paris feen, you'll frankly own
Your boafted London seems a country town;
Has Chriftianity yet reach'd your nation ?
Are churches built? Are Mafquerades in fashion?
Do daily Soups your dinners introduce ?
Are mufick, fnuff, and coaches yet in use?
Pardon me, Sir; we know the Paris mode,
And gather Peliteffe from Courts abroad.
Like you, our Courtiers keep a num'rous train
To load their coach; and tradesmen dun in vain.
Nor has religion left us in the lurch,
And, as in France, our vulgar crowd the Church;
Our Ladies too íupport the Masquerade,
The fex by nature love th' intriguing trade.
Straight the vain fop in ign'rant rapture cries,
Paris the barbarous world will civilize !
Pray, Sir, point out among the paffing band
The present Beauties who the town command.
See yonder dame ; ftri& virtue chills her breast,
Mark in her eye demure the Prude profeft;
That frozen bofom native fire must want,
Which boasts of conftancy to one gallant !
This next the Spoils of fifty lovers wears,
Rich Dandin's brilliant favours grace her ears;
The necklace Florio's gen'rous flame bestow'd,
Clitander's Jparkling gems her finger load;
But now her charms grow cheap by conftant use,
She fins for scarfs, clock'd stockings, knots, and fhoes.
This next, with fober gait and ferious leer,
Wearies her knees with morn and evʼning prayer ;
She fcorns th' ignoble love of feeble pages,
But with three Abbots in one night engages.
This with the cardinal her nights employs,
Where boly finews confecrate her joys.
Why have I promis'd things beyond my power!
Five affignations wait me at this hour
The Sprightly Countess firft my vifit claims,
To-morrow shall indulge inferior dames.
Pardon me, Sir, that thus I take my leave,
Gay Florimella flily twitch'd my fleeve.
Adieu, Monfieur- The Opera hour draws near.
Not see the Opera! all the world is there;
Where on the stage th' embroider'd youth of France
In bright array attract the female glance:
This languishes, this ftruts, to show his mien,
And not a gold clock'd flocking moves unfeen.-
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