Who would of Watling Street the dangers fhare,
When the broad pavement of Cheapfide is near?
Or who that rugged street would traverse o'er,
That ftretches, O Fleet Ditch! from thy black fhore
To the Tower's moated walls? Here ftreams afcend,
That in mix'd fumes the wrinkled nofe offend.
Where chandlers cauldrons boil; where fifhy prey
Hide the wet ftall, long abfent from the fea;
And where the cleaver chops the heifer's spoil;
And where huge hogfheads sweat with trainy oil,
Thy breathing noftril hold: but how fhall I
Pass where, in piles, Carnavian cheeses lie?
Cheese, that the table's clofing 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 fmell!
At distance rolls along the gilded coach,
Nor fturdy carmen on thy walks encroach;
No lets would bar thy ways, were chairs deny'd,
The foft fupports of laziness and pride;

Shops breathe perfumes, thro' fashes ribbands glow,
The mutual arms of ladies and the beau :
Yet ftill e'en here, when rains the paffage hide,
Oft the loose stone fpirts up a muddy tide
Beneath thy careless foot; and from on high,
Where mafons mount the ladder, fragments fly;
Mortar and crumbled lime in showers defcend,
And o'er thy head deftructive tiles impend.

But fometimes let me leave the noisy roads,

And filent wander in the clofe abodes,

Where wheels ne'er shake the ground; there pensive stray,
In ftudious thought, the long uncrouded way.

Here I remark each walker's diff'rent face,

And in their look their various bufinefs trace.

* Cheshire, anciently fo called.

The

The broker here his spacious beaver wears,
Upon his brow fit jealoufies and cares;

Bent on fome mortgage (to avoid reproach)
He feeks bye-streets, and faves th' expenfive coach.
Soft, at low doors, old letchers tap their cane,
For fair reclufe, who travel Drury Lane;
Here roams, uncomb'd, the lavish rake, to fhun
His Fleet Street draper's everlasting dun.

Careful obfervers, ftudious of the town,
Shun the misfortunes that difgrace the clown;
Untempted, they contemn the juggler's feats,
Pafs by the Meufe, nor try the thimble's cheats
When drays bound high, they never cross behind,
Where bubb'ling yeast is blown by gufts of wind:
And when up Ludgate Hill huge carts move flow,
Far from the ftraining steeds fecurely go,
Whofe dashing hoofs behind them fling the mire,
And mark with muddy blots the gazing squire.
The Parthian thus his javelin backward throws,
And as he flies infefts pursuing foes.

The thoughtlefs wits shall frequent forfeits pay,
Who 'gainst the fentry's box difcharge their tea,
Do thou fome court or secret corner seek,
Nor flush with fhame the paffing virgin's cheek.
Yet let me not defcend to trivial song,
Nor vulgar circumftance my verfe prolong,
Why fhould I teach the maid, when torrents pour,
Her head to fhelter from the fudden fhower?
Nature will best her ready hand inform,
With her spread petticoat to fence the ftorm.
Does not each walker know the warning fign,
When wifps of straw depend upon the twine
Crofs the close ftreet, that then the pavior's art
Renews the ways, deny'd to coach and cart?

* A cheat commonly practifed with three thimbles and a little ball.

Who

Who knows not that the coachman lashing by,
Oft with his flourish cuts the heedlefs eye?
And when he takes his ftand, to wait a fare,
His horfes foreheads fhun the winter's air?
Nor will I roam where fummer's fultry rays
Parch the dry ground, and fpread with duft the ways;
With whirling gufts the rapid atoms rise,
Smoke o'er the pavement, and involve the skies.
Winter my theme confines, whofe nitry wind
Shall cruft the flabby mire, and kennels bind;
She bids the fnow defcend in flaky sheets,
And in her hoary mantle clothe the streets.
Let not the virgin tread these flippery roads,
The gathering fleece the hollow patten loads;
But if thy footsteps flide with clotted frost,
Strike off the breaking balls against the post.
On filent wheel the paffing coaches roll;
Oft look behind, and ward the threat'ning pole.
In harden'd orbs the school-boy moulds the fnow,
To mark the coachman with a dext'rous throw.
Why do ye, boys! the kennel's surface spread,
To tempt with faithless pass the matron's tread?
How can ye laugh to fee the damfel fpurn,
Sink in your frauds, and her green stocking mourn ?
At White's the harness'd chairman idly stands,
And swings around his waift his tingling hands:
The fempstress speeds to Change with red-tipp'd nose,
The Belgian stove beneath her footstool glows;
In half-whipt muflin needles useless lie,

And fhuttle-cocks across the counter fly.

These sports warm harmless; why, then, will ye prove,
Deluded maids! the dangerous flame of love?

Where Covent Garden's famous temple ftands,
That boafts the work of Jones' immortal hands,
Columns with plain magnificence appear,
And graceful porches lead along the square;

Here

Here oft my course I bend; when, lo! from far,
I spy the furies of the foot-ball war:

The prentice quits his shop to join the crew,
Increasing crowds the flying game pursue.
Thus, as you roll the ball o'er fnowy 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 foars on high;
The dext'rous glazier ftrong returns the bound,
And jingling fashes on the penthouse found.

O roving Mufe! recal that wond'rous year,
When winter reign'd in bleak Britannia's air;
When hoary Thames, with frofted ofiers crown'd,
Was three long moons in icy fetters bound.
The waterman, forlorn, along the shore,
Penfive reclines upon his useless oar;

See harness'd steeds defert the ftony town,
And wander roads unftable, not their own;
Wheels o'er the harden'd waters fmoothly glide,
And raise with whiten'd tracks the slippery tide.
Here the fat cook piles high the blazing fire,
And scarce the spit can turn the steer entire.
Booths fudden hide the Thames, long streets appear,
And numerous games proclaim the crouded fair.
So, when a general bids the martial train
Spread their encampment o'er the fpacious plain,
Thick rifing tents a canvas city build,

And the loud dice refound thro' all the field.
'Twas here the matron found a doleful fate:

Let elegiack lay the woe relate,

Soft as the breath of distant flutes, at hours
When filent evening clofes up the flowers;
Lulling as falling water's hollow noife,
Indulging grief, like Philomela's voice.

Doll every day had walk'd these treacherous roads,
Her neck grew warpt beneath autumnal loads

Of

Of various fruit: fhe now a basket bore;
That head, alas! fhall basket bear no more.
Each booth fhe frequent pafs'd, in queft of gain,
And boys with pleasure heard her fhrilling ftrain.
Ah, Doll! all mortals muft refign their breath,
And Industry itself submit to death.

The cracking chryftal yields; she finks, she dies;
Her head, chopt off, from her loft shoulders flies :

Pippins!' fhe cry'd, but death her voice confounds, And Pip-pip-pip!' along the ice refounds.

So, when the Thracian furies Orpheus tore,
And left his bleeding trunk deform'd with gore,
His fever'd head floats down the filver tide,
His yet warm tongue for his loft confort cry'd;
Eurydice!' with quivering voice he mourn'd,
And Heber's banks Eurydice !' return'd.

But now the western gale the flood unbinds,
And blackening clouds move on with warmer winds;
The wooden town it's frail foundation leaves,
And Thames' full urn rolls down his plenteous waves;
From ev'ry penthoufe ftreams the fleeting fnow,
And with diffolving froft the pavements flow.
Experienc'd men, inur'd to city ways,
Need not the Calendar to count their days.
When thro' the town, with flow and folemn air,
Led by the noftril, walks the muzzled bear;
Behind him moves, majestically dull,
The pride of Hockley-hole, the furly bull.
Learn hence the periods of the week to name:
Mondays and Thurfdays are the days of game.

When fishy stalls with double ftóre are laid,
The golden-belly'd carp, the broad-finn'd maid,
Red-fpeckled trouts, the falmon's filver jowl,
The jointed lobster, and unfcaly foal,
And luscious fcallops to allure the tastes
Of rigid zealots to delicious fafts;