From Covent-Garden crowds promiscuous go, Whom the Muse knows not, nor desires to know: Vet'rans they seem'd, but knew of arms no more Than if, till that time, arms they never bore: Like Westminster militia train'd to fight, They scarcely knew the left hand from the right. Asham'd among such troops to shew the head, Their chiefs were scatter'd, and their heroes fled.
Sparks at his glass sat comfortably down To sep'rate frown from smile, and smile from frown. Smith, the genteel, the airy, and the smart, Smith was just gone to school to say his part. Ross, (a misfortune which we often meet) Was fast asleep at dear Statira's feet....
