ON THE FIVE LADIES AT SOT'S-HOLE*, WITH THE DOCTOR† AT THEIR HEAD. N. B. THE LADIES TREATED THE DOCTOR. Sent as from an OFFICER in the ARMY. 1728. FAIR ladies, number five, Who, in your merry freaks, With little Tom contrive While he fits by a-grinning, To fee you fafe in Sot's-hole, Set up with greafy linen, And neither mugs nor pots whole: Alas! I never thought, A priest would please your palate; Befides, I'll hold a groat, He'll put you in a ballad; Where I fhall fee your faces Than Venus like an owl. An alehoufe in Dublin, famous for beef-fteaks. + Dr. Thomas Sheridan. And we fhall take you rather To be a midnight pack It fills my heart with woe, To treat a dull Divine. Be by a Parfon cheated! Had you been cunning stagers, You might yourselves be treated By Captains and by Majors. See how corruption grows, While mothers, daughters, aunts, Inftead of powder'd beaux, From pulpits chuse gallants. If we, who wear our wigs With fan-tail and with fnake, Are bubbled thus by prigs; Z-ds! who would be a rake? Had I a heart to fight, I'd knock the Doctor down; Or could I read or write, Egad! I'd wear a gown. Then leave him to his birch * And at The Rofe on Sunday, The parfon fafe at church, I'll treat you with burgundy. *Dr. Sheridan was a fchool-mafter. THE THE FIVE LADIES ANSWER TO THE BEAU With the WIG and WINGS at his HEAD. OU little fcribbling beau, What dæmon made you write? Because to write you know You thought to make a farce on Is worth an hundred Beaux. And you would make us vassals, To filver-clocks and taffels; You would, you Thing of Things! Because around your cane A ring of diamonds is set; And you, in fome bye-lane, Have gain'd a paultry grizette : Shall we, of fense refin'd, As noify as the wind, We hate your empty prattle; And vow and fwear 'tis true, There's more in one child's rattle THE BEAU'S REPLY TO THЕ FIVE LADIES ANSWER. WHY, how now dapper Black, I fmell your gown and cassock, As ftrong upon your back, As Tifdall* fmells of a fock. To write such scurvy stuff! Fine Ladies, when they write, As foft and fweet as butter. But Satan never faw Such haggard lines as these : They stick athwart my maw, A clergyman in the North of Ireland, who had made proposals of marriage to Stella. THE THE JOURNAL OF A MODERN LADY. In a LETTER to a PERSON of QUALITY. 1728. SIR, T was a moft unfriendly part IT In you, who ought to know my heart How could it come into your mind [Here feveral verfes are omitted.] The hound be hunted by the hare, Than I turn rebel to the fair. 'Twas you engag'd me firft to write, Then gave the fubject out of spite: |