_Spring-Garden_ now alone does all invite
The Cit, the Wit, the Rake, the Fool, the Knight:
No Lady, that can pawn her Coat or Gown,
Will rest 'till she has laid the Money down:
Each Clerk will to the Joints his Fingers work,
And Counsellors find out some modern Querk,
To raise the Guinea, and to see the _Grot_,
And 'mongst the _Belles_ to slant it at _Ridolt_.

Here Seamstresses and Maids together vie,
And the spruce 'Prentice shines in Sword and Tye:
Bandy'd in Lace the City Dame appears,
Her Hair genteelly frizzled round her Ears;
Her Gown with _Tyrian_ Dyes most richly stain'd,
Glitt'ring with Orient Pearl from Orphans gain'd.

_My Lord_, to oblige his Spouse, takes Tickets three,
Crys, one's for you my Love, and one for me,
The third dispose as you shall best adjudge,
Shew where you're pleas'd, and where you owe a Grudge:
_Madam_ elate, thinks she'll be kind to _Betty_,
To hide the Slips she made with Spark i'th' City:
But _Stallion Tom_, who well knew how to scold,
And by his Mistress's Favour grown too bold,
Swears if _he_ has it not, he will reveal,
And to his Master tell a dismal Tale;
_Madam_, reluctant, gives him up the Paper;
He at her Folly laughs, and cuts a Caper.