To quench the blushes of ingenious shame,
To vie with demireps in paint and pride,
And swell the calendar of evil fame.
Far from St. James’s, far from all the Squares,
Their vulgar footsteps never learn’d to stray;
About St. Martin’s Lane, or Lambeth Stairs,
They keep the noisy tenor of their way.
Yet, that ev’n these may taste their due delights,
Some Evening Tea-garden with holly fence,
From caxon’d quizzes, and from flounce-cloak’d frights,