Or fly to _Tunbridge_ to procure an Heir;
_Spring-Gardens_ can supply their every Want,
For here whate'er they ask the Swain wil grant,
And future Lords (if they'll confess the right)
Shall owe their Being to this blessed Night;
Hence future Wickedness shall take its Rise,
(For Masquerade to this is paultry Vice)
An Aera of new Crimes shall hence begin,
And _H----gg----r_ chief Devil be of Sin;
No more shall Ugliness be his Disgrace,
His Head mends all the Frailties of his Face;
When Masques and Balls to their Conclusion drew,
To this his last Resort the Hero flew;
So by degrees the Errant Knights of old
To Glory rose, and by Degrees grew bold;
A while content the common Road they trod,
'Till some great Act at last confess the _God_.

Now Painters _work_,--and dine, that starv'd before,
And Tallymen supply each needy Whore--
Fam'd _Covent-Garden_ droops with mournful Look,
Nor can St. _James's_ her great Rival brook:
Each _Duck_ and D----ss, quacks to different Tunes,
One _claps her Wings_ for Love, the other swoons;
Each _Vintner_ storms and swears he is undone,
Vollies of Oaths speak loud the Drawer's Moan;
_Porter_ who us'd to search for needful Girls,
Now sucks his Fingers, or his Apron twirls,
Bemoans his Loss of Business, and with Sighs,
In Box imprison'd lays the useless Dice.