'Till near the brink of _Charles's_ beauteous stream,
They stop, and think the lingering boat to blame.
Soon as the empty skiff salutes the shore,
In with impetuous haste they clustering pour,
The men the head, the stern the ladies grace,
And neighing horses fill the middle space.
Sunk deep, the boat floats slow the waves along,
And scarce contains the thickly crowded throng;
A gen'ral horror seizes on the fair,
While white-look'd cowards only not despair.
'Till rowed with care they reach th' opposing side,
Leap on the shore, and leave the threat'ning tide.
While to receive the pay the boatman stands,
And chinking pennys jingle in his hands.
Eager the sparks assault the waiting cars,
Fops meet with fops, and clash in civil wars.
Off fly the wigs, as mount their kicking heels,
The rudely bouncing head with anguish swells,
A crimson torrent gushes from the nose,
Adown the cheeks, and wanders o'er the cloaths.
Taunting, the victor's strait the chariots leap,
While the poor batter'd beau's for madness weep.

"Now in calashes shine the blooming maids,
Bright'ning the day which blazes o'er their heads;
The seats with nimble steps they swift ascend,
And moving on the crowd, their waste of beauties spend.
So bearing thro' the boundless breadth of heav'n,
The twinkling lamps of light are graceful driv'n;
While on the world they shed their glorious rays,