My father sells old cloathes.—A bearded Smouch;
Whose constant aim was to humbug his buyers,
And teach his only son, myself,—to cheat.
But I had heard of Gambling,—and I long’d
To lighten, with false dice, some sporting Lord.
Change Alley granted, what my fate denied:
This moon, which rose last night, crooked like my fingers,
’Pear’d not i’ th’ almanac, when in dark street,
A band of lucky Bulls, from Garraway’s—hot,
Rush’d like a torrent down chaste Goodman’s Fields,