The watch had cry'd Past one, with hollow strain,
And to their stands return'd to sleep again;
Grave cits and bullies, rakes and squeamish beaux,
Came reeling with their doxies from the Rose;
Jephson's and Mitchell's hurry now was done,
And now Tom King's (so rakes ordain'd) begun;
Bright shone the Moon, and calm around the sky,
No cinder-wench, nor straggling link-boy nigh,
When in that garden, where with mimic pow'r
Strut the mock-purple heroes of an hour;