Though smutty chimney-sweep perchance her father!
Thus hath Sir J——n the latest fashion showed
And mating so, made serving-maids the mode!
Ye sprightlies proud! Ye high-born dames despair,
Weep pearly tears and rend your powdered hair.
Forgo that fond, that secret-cherished hope
That ye yourselves might, one day, thus elope:
Since Fashion and Sir J——n do both decree
No lady may, except a wench she be!
Mayfair was powerfully and profoundly stirred: elegant gentlemen, having perused these extracts from The Polite Monitor hurriedly to themselves, forthwith hasted to read them aloud, and with due deliberation, to all who would listen; they were the main topic of discussion in every fashionable club and coffee-house. Fine ladies, old and young, becked and nodded over their Bohea, etc., lifted censorious eyebrows, whispered behind their fans, and, learning my lady was in town, promptly ordered coach or chair and were borne incontinent to my lady’s house in St. James’s Square, each and every armed with a copy of The Polite Monitor, and all eager to pour oil on the flames as lovingly as possible.