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Hampstead-Wells.
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HAIL! fairest WELLS, tho' late the MUSES Deign,
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To hear this Nymphs and Loves unsung, Complain.
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At length propitious to this eager Prayer,
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Bid Thee with ASTROP, TUNBRIDGE to compare;
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And let thy FAME all Second-Honours scorn,
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High on the Wings of thy own Wind-mill born.
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What though thy crowded WALKS no TITLES boast,
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'Tis Beauty, and not Birth, that makes the Toast.
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The ruddy Lip, Black Eyes, well-govern'd Fan,
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And a young swelling-forwardness for MAN,
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Will please, where Nature deals with equal Hand,
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Though from Round-Court, or from the neighbouring Strand.
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By Nature's Laws, in Love, Distinctions cease,
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And Ladies never scruple, but Undress.
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What else makes wanton R------ge with softn'd Grace,
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Sweep all the WALKS, and set her dimpled Face,
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To Catch the first promiscuous Embrace.
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And Bobby (deaf to Honour) from the Croud,
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Chuse a fair BEAU, with no big Title proud.
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ONE frankly from her China-Shop retires,
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Quitting a gainful Trade to quench her raging Fires.
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And fair Round-Court, taught by dear Mother's Arts,
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Neglecting High Honours and Deserts,
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Takes Petty-Fogger for his Larger Parts.
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Bright H---------ley, both Beautiful and Young,
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The TOAST of every Glass, each Poet's Song,
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Whose glittering Charms do all the WALKS surprize,
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While her WIT speaks, and Triumphs of her Eyes;
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Hears the Swains sigh, and hears them Sigh in vain,
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For She does all, with graceful Scorn, disdain:
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None but her Aged Sire her Passion moves,
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'Tis he alone (and pitty 'tis) she loves.
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With him she dangles to and fro all Day,
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And in his silver Locks her pretty Fingers play.
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Hail! F------r next, thou MAN and WOMAN too,
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That doest both Ways thy eager Lust pursue.
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Some secret Charms must, sure, in Thee prevail,
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For whom Swains languish, and the Nymphs look pale:
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What are the ARTS with which thou does ensnare,
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And lead, at Will, the captivated FAIR;
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That MAIDS who fear by Men to be undone,
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With hasty Joy to thy Embraces run?
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Is it that from thy Bliss there is no fear,
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Ladies of Honour lost again shou'd hear,
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No pratling Boys shou'd to the World proclaim
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Their wanton Mother's Ruin, to their shame?
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In vain ------ For SATYR shall the Theft reveal,
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While they a double Disappointment feel;
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WIND, their Security, an empty Name,
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Cheated of Pleasure, and undone to Fame.
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Here, in vile Hack, the viler Punk comes down,
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Seeking thy Streams her inbred Fires to drown,
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Through whom the WATERS with loud Hissings pass,
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And one Green-Gown burns up the friendly Grass.
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But, oh, Cane-WOOD! let not thy Shades declare
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How oft, without Distinction from the Fair,
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The well-chin'd Clown has put in for a Share.
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Few here of unregarded VOWS complain,
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From mighty C---------et to sweet I---------k L---------ne.
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Enough, my Muse, let the next Task display
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The Knights that in this happy Quarter stray,
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Where Fortune-Hunters ply for every Prize;
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If from False-Oaths the wary WIDOW flies,
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He knows to Catch her Jointure by False Dice.
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Grave-headed CITS, with their Legitimate Race,
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Of the same Depth of Brain, and the same Cut of Face;
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The Gentle SIRES the newest Dance compose,
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And Squire the Ladies when the Tumbler shews.
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The sick Brigade that Whirles the Time away,
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And in soft Evening-Breezes gently play,
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To Cheat the Hippo, Gout and Sciatica.
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The Jolly Boys that roar for t'other Quart,
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And slowly from the Seventh Bowl depart:
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Bowlers, with sweaty Night-Caps, and Strong-Feet,
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And humble Rogues that for a Tester Cheat.
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'Twere endless to describe the Medley-Crew,
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Scarce such the late fam'd Smithfield-Cloysters knew;
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And if thy FAME proceed so daring when so Young,
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What Triumphs to thy riper Years belong?
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What happy Subject for an abler SONG?
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