Plunge into your native holes.
Bucks, and does, and hares, and fawns,
Speed ye to your native lawns.
Each to your closest covers haste!
Beware! beware the man of taste!
All that can escape, away!
You're surely slaughter'd, if you stay,
For Monday next is Lord Mayor's day."
[164] This scene is laid in the cellar of a house near Water Lane, Fleet Street, then known by the name of the "Blood Bowl House;" which curious appellation was given it from the various scenes of riot and murder which were there perpetrated.
[165] This has been supposed to be intended for the same prostitute whom we have before seen exhibited in a garret and a night-cellar: I do not discover the least resemblance.