Wit he had none, Beauty he had his share on,
A soft clear Skin, a dapper Neck and Waist,
In all Things suited to the modern Taste;
And most polite, like all our modish Brood,
That is, a very Fool, who's very leud:
He ogles Miss, she squints, and turns aside,
Nor can her Mask her rising Blushes hide;
At last (as Bargains here are quickly made)
She yeilds to be Caress'd, tho' still afraid;
She cries, a private Room's for them most fit,
For Reputation is the Glory of a Cit;
This only is the Place, where in a Trice,
Some Angel steals the Wounds of friendly Vice;
The Nymph finds a Relief for all her Pains,
And the lost Maidenhead's restor'd again.

But who is he in Bower close confin'd,
With a kind Fair t' unbend his troubled Mind,
Sure by his Air, his Beauty, and his Grace,
It _Phoebus_ is, or some of heavenly Race.

A petty Courtier, of small Estate and Sense,
Stood hearkning by, and cry'd it was the P----ce.

Your Pardon, Sir, I knew it not before,
For my Mistake depended on his Whore,
One had _Latona_ to'ther has _L----r_.

Next to the _Grotto_ let us bend our Eye,
The _Grotto_, Patron of Iniquity,