Or who that rugged street would traverse o'er, That stretches, O Fleet-ditch! from thy black shore To the Tow'r's moated walls?* Here steams ascend That, in mix'd fumes, the wrinkled nose offend. Where chandlers' caldrons boil; where fishy prey Hide the wet stall, long absent from the sea; And where the cleaver chops the heifer's spoil; And where huge hogsheads sweat with trainy oil, Thy breathing nostril hold: but how shall I Pass where, in piles, Cornavion † cheeses lie? Cheese, that the table's closing rites denies, And bids me with th' unwilling chaplain rise. O bear me to the paths of fair Pall-Mall; Safe are thy pavements, grateful is thy smell! At distance rolls along the gilded coach, Nor sturdy carmen on thy walks encroach; No lets would bar thy ways, where chairs deny'd The soft supports of laziness and pride; Shops breathe perfumes, thro' sashes ribands glow, The mutual arms of ladies and the beau: Yet still ev'n here, when rains the passage hide, Oft' the loose stone spirts up a muddy tide Beneath thy careless foot; and from on high, Where masons mount the ladder, fragments fly; Mortar and crumbled lime in show'rs descend, And o'er thy head destructive tiles impend.
Thames-street. † Cheshire, anciently so called,
But sometimes let me leave the noisy roads,
And silent wander in the close abodes,
Where wheels ne'er shake the ground; there pensive
In studious thought, the long uncrowded way. [stray,
Here I remark each Walker's diff'rent face,
And in their look their various bus'ness trace.
The broker here nis spacious beaver wears,
Upon his brow sit jealousies and cares;
Bent on some mortgage (to avoid reproach)
He seeks by-streets, and saves th' expensive coach. 280
Soft, at low doors, old letchers tap their cane,
For fair recluse, who travels Drury-lane;
Here roams uncomb'd the lavish rake, to shun
His Fleet-street draper's everlasting dun.
Careful observers, studious of the Town,
Shun the misfortunes that disgrace the clown;
Untempted, they contemn the juggler's feats,
Pass'd by the Meuse, nor try the thimble's cheats.
When drays bound high, they never cross behind,
Where bubbling yest is blown by gusts of wind: 290
And when up Ludgate-hill huge carts move slow,
Far from the straining steeds securely go,
Whose dashing hoofs behind them fling the mire,
And mark with muddy blots the gazing 'squire.
The Parthian thus his jav'lin backward throws,
And, as he flies, infests pursuing foes.
A cheat commonly practised with three thimbles and a little ball.
The thoughtless wits shall frequent forfeits pay, Who 'gainst the sentry's box discharge their tea. Do thou some court or secret corner seek,
Nor flush with shame the passing virgin's cheek. 300 Yet let me not descend to trivial song,
Nor vulgar circumstance my verse prolong.
Why should I teach the maid, when torrents pour,
Her head to shelter from the sudden shower?
Nature will best her ready hand inform,
With her spread petticoat to fence the storm.
Does not each Walker know the warning sign,
When wisps of straw depend upon the twine
Cross the close street, that then the paver's art
Renews the ways, deny'd to coach and cart ?
Who knows not that the coachman lashing by,
Oft' with his flourish cuts the heedless eye?
And when he takes his stand, to wait a fare,
His horses' foreheads shun the winter's air?
Nor will I roam when summer's sultry rays
Parch the dry ground, and spread with dust the ways;
With whirling gusts the rapid atoms rise,
Smoke o'er the pavement, and involve the skies.
Winter my theme confines, whose nitry wind
Shall crust the slabby mire, and kennels bind;
She bids the snow descend in flaky sheets,
And in her hoary mantle clothe the streets.
Let not the virgin tread these slipp'ry roads,
The gath'ring fleece the hollow patten loads;
But if thy footsteps slide with clotted frost,
Strike off the breaking balls against the post.
On silent wheel the passing coaches roll,
Oft look behind, and ward the threat'ning pole.
In harden'd orbs the school-boy moulds the snow,
To mark the coachman with a dext'rous throw.
Why do ye, Boys! the kennels surface spread,
To tempt with faithless pass the matron's tread?
How can you laugh to see the damsel spurn,
Sink in her frauds, and her green stocking mourn?
At White's the harness chairman idly stands,
And swings around his waist his tingling hands:
The sempstress speeds to Change with red-tipt nose,
The Belgian stove beneath her footstool glows:
In half-whipt muslin needles useless lie,
And shuttlecocks across the counter fly.
These sports warm harmless; why then will ye prove,
Deluded Maids! the dang'rous flame of love?
Where Covent Garden's famous temple stands,
That boasts the work of Jones' immortal hands,
Columns with plain magnificence appear,
And graceful porches lead along the square;
Here oft my course I bend, when lo! from far,
I spy the furies of the foot-ball'd war:
The 'prentice quits his shop to join the crew,
Increasing crowds the flying game pursue.
Thus, as you roll the ball o'er snowy ground,
The gath'ring globe augments with ev'ry round.
But whither shall I run? The throng draws nigh;
The ball now skims the street, now soars on high;
The dext'rous glazier strong returns the bound,
And jingling sashes on the penthouse sound.
O roving Muse! recall that wondrous year,
When winter reign'd in bleak Britannia's air:
When hoary Thames, with frosted oziers crown'd,
Was three long moons in icy fetters bound,
The waterman, forlorn along the shore,
Pensive reclines upon his useless oar,
Sees harness'd steeds desert the stony town,
And wander roads unstable, not their own;
Wheels o'er the harden'd waters smoothly glide,
And rase with whiten'd tracks the slipp'ry tide.
Here the fat cook piles high the blazing fire,
And scarce the spit can turn the steer entire.
Booths sudden hide the Thames, long streets appear,
And num'rous games proclaim the crowded fair.
So when a general bids the martial train
Spread their encampment o'er the spacious plain,
Thick rising tents a canvas city built,
And the loud dice resound thro' all the field.
'Twas here the matron found a doleful fate;
Let elegiac lay the woe relate,
Soft as the breath of distant flutes, at hours
When silent ev'ning closes up the flowers,
Lulling as falling water's hollow noise,
Indulging grief, like Philomela's voice.
Volume I.
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