--
Here, reader, with your leave, will we
Commence our London history.
'Twas Sunday, and the park was full
With Mistress, John, and Master Bull,
And all their little fry.
The crowd pour in from all approaches,
Tilb'ries, dennets, gigs, and coaches;
~167~~
The bells rung merrily.
Old dowagers, their fubsy faces{2}
Painted to eclipse the Graces,
Pop their noddles out
Of some old family affair
That's neither chariot, coach, or chair,
Well known at ev'ry rout.
But bless me, who's that coach and six?
"That, sir, is Mister Billy Wicks,
A great light o' the city,
Tallow-chandler, and lord mayor{3};
Miss Flambeau Wicks's are the fair,
Who're drest so very pretty.
It's only for a year you know
He keeps up such a flashy show;
And then he's melted down.
The man upon that half-starved nag{4}
Is an Ex-S------ff, a strange wag,
Half flash, and half a clown.
But see with artful lures and wiles
The Paphian goddess, Mrs. G***s,{5}
2 There are from twenty to thirty of these well known relics
of antiquity who regularly frequent the park, and attend all
the fashionable routs,--perfumed and painted with the
utmost extravagance: if the wind sets in your face, they may
be scented at least a dozen carriages off.
Pages:
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228