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On him the ladies cast the yielding glance,
Let us into the field of beauty start;
-* A famous dancing-master.
You ask me if Parisian dames, like ours, With rattling dice profane the Sunday's hours ? If they the gamester's pale-ey'd vigils keep, And stake their honour while their husbands sleep? Yes, Sir; like English toasts, the dames of France Will risk their income on a single chance. Nannette last night a tricking Pharaon play'd, The cards the taillier's sliding hand obey'd; So To-day her neck no brilliant circle wears, Nor the ray-darting pendant loads her ears. Why does old Chloris an assembly hold,? Chloris each night divides the sharper's gold. Corrina's cheek with frequent losses burns, And no bold trente la va her fortune turns. Ah! too raslı virgin! where's thy virtue flown? She pawns her person for the sharper's loan. Yet who with justice can the fair upbraid, Whose debts of honour are so duly paid ?
90 But let me ryt forget the toilet's cares, Where art each morn the languid cheek repairs: This red's too pale, nor gives a distant grace; Madaine to-day puts on her opera face: From this we scarce extract the milk-maid's bloom, Bring the deep dye that warms across the room. Ncr flames her cheek, so strong her charms prevail, That on her gown the silken rose looks pale! Not but that France some native beauty boasts, Clermont and Charolois might grace our toasts.
When the sweet-breathing spring unfólds the buds, Love flies the dusty town for shady woods. Then Tottenham fields with roving beauty swarm, And Hampstead balls the City virgins' warm; Then Chelsea's meads o’erhear perfidious vows, And the prest grass defrauds“the grazing cows. 'Tis here the sanje; but in a higher sphere; For ev'n court ladiessin'in open air. What cit with a gallant would trust his spouse Beneath the tempting shade of Greenwich boughs ? What Peer of France would let his Duchess rove, Where Boulonge's closest woods invite to love? But here no wife can blast her husband's fame; Cuckold is grown an honourable name. Stretch'd on the grass the shepherd sighs his pain, And on the grass what shepherd sighs in vain ? On Chloe's lap here Damon laid along, Melts with the languish of her am'rous song: There Iris flies Palæmon thro' the glade, Nor trips by chance---till in the thickest shade: Here Celimene defends her lips and breast, For kisses are by struggling closer prest: Alexis there with eager flame grows bold, Nor can the nymph his wanton fingers hoid. Be wise, Alexis! what, so near the road! Hark, a coach rolls, and husbands are abroad! Such were our pleasures in the days of yore, When ain'rous Charles Britannia's sceptre bore;
The nightly scene of joy the Park was made,
Sonetimes the Tuillerie's gawdy walk I love, Where I thro' crowds of rustling manteaus rove. As here from side to side my eyes I cast, And gaz'd on all ihe glitt'ring train that past, Sulden a fop steps forih before the rest, I knew the bold embroid'ry of his vest. He thus acosts me with familiar air, farbleu! on a fait cet babil en Angleterre! Quelle marche! ce galon est grossierement range; Voila quelque chose de fort beau et degage! This said, on his red heel he turns, and then Hums a soft minuet, and proceeds agen. “ Well, now you've Paris seen, you'll frankly own " Your boasted London seems a country town: “ Has Christianity yet reach'd your nation ? “ Are churches built ? are masquerades in fashion ? “ Do daily soups your dinners introduce ? “ Are music, snuff, and coaches, yet in use ?” 150 Pardon me, Sir; we know the Paris mode, And gather politesse from courts abroad. Like you, our courtiers keep a num'rous train To load their coach, and tradesmen dun in vain. Nor has religion left us in the lurch, And, as in France, our vulgar crowd the church:
Our ladies, too, support the masquerade;