But some Spruse Criticks, I hear, swears ’tis strange,
To take a powder’d Beau off from the Exchange;
A place more fam’d for Band, and dress precise,
For greasy Cuckholds, Stockjobbers, and lies,
Than for a Spark o’ th’ town, but now a days
The Cit sets up in box, puffs, perfumes, plays,
And tho’ he passes for a Man of Trade,
Is the chief squeaker at the Masquerade,
Let him his Sister, or his wife beware,
’Tis not for nothing Courtiers go so far;