about the Gardens, where
‘The leafy glade
Prompts the proposal dalliance delayed;’
about the ballrooms, where
‘Panting damsels, dancing for their lives,
Are only maidens waltzing into wives;’
about the theatre, where
‘Toole or Compton, perfect in his part,
Touches each sense, except the head and heart;’
and about a number of other things too censurable to be mentioned here.
And, in truth, when one thinks of the Season in song, one thinks less of the satire than of the sarcasm, less of the cynicism than of the sympathy, with which it has been treated by its poets. Take, for example, that most conspicuous feature of the Season—the walking, riding, driving in the Row. It was Tickell who made a woman of fashion of his day tell how she
‘Mounted her palfrey as gay as a lark,
And, followed by John, took the dust in Hyde Park,’
and how