ON THE Second Entertainment of the Batchelours BY THE RIGHT HONOURABLE The Lord Mayor of the City of London, SEPTEMBER viij. MDCLXIX.
NOW, Gallants, Much good do't ye. But d' you hear
The News abroad? I heard one just now swear
That all th' unmarry'd Ladies, that were met
To see your Pomp, are fighting in the street.
Th' have pin'd away, e're since their former sight,
With the Green-Sickness, all; but now they'l sight.
While this Mans Face was prais'd, and that Mans Foot,
One Gallants Perruque, and anothers Sute,
A jealous humour took 'em all i'th' pate,
And th' are by th' ears, none knows for whom, or what.
'Tis some of You; pray think upon their Cases:
Unless You part 'em, they'l spoil all their Faces.
They rave (alas!) to think their destinies
Have Damn'd 'em Maids, till You'l be otherwise.
Th' are tantaliz'd; what would you have 'm do?
They neither can enjoy your Feast, nor You.
These Sabine Ladies came with longing Eyes
To view your more than Roman Gallantries:
And now they'l prove th' inverted Story true,
And will (I fear) commit a Rape on You. —
— But I'l no longer 'fright you, ben't dejected:
'Twas but to try you, how you stood affected.
The Ladies thank you for their Noble View:
The Men, both for the sight of Them, and You.
You've beg'd th' young City Ladies this daies Play:
But they must Fast upon their Holy-day.
They were both gallant Sights; but 'troth 'tis pity,
Maids may Adorn, but ne're can Make a City:
And Maids and Batchelours are a finer sight
For a Summers Day, than for a Winters Night.
'Pray, Gallants, think upon't; but for to day
Eat, drink, be jovial: — let the Ladies stay.
If to their Healths you'l drink a Glass or two,
I dare be bold they'l do as much for You.
See all before you, you can wish; and here
You need no Horn, but that of Plenty, fear.
Such store of Ammunition is able
To 'fright one with th' Artill'ry of the Table.
Tables fo nobly fill'd, as if last Fleet
Had brought home no Commodity, but Meat:
And Wines so rich and costly, as if there was
Cleopatra's Pearl dissolv'd in ev'ry glass.
Two more such Feasts were able to undo
A Land, and bankrupt all the World, but You.
This very Sight would make a Miser bold
To wish (like Midas) he could eat his Gold.
A Puritans eternal Lungs would waste
To say a Grace, of length for such a Feast:
He'd leave his Fasts, though ne're so great a Sinner,
And keep a long Thanksgiving, for the Dinner.
Those nauseous stomachs o'th' preciser Ones
Bark at those Tables, where they'd pick the Bones.
But Envy, no not Theirs, can dare to call
What's Noble by the name of Prodigal.
'Tis free from all Excess, as full of State:
All Great Mens Actions, like Themselves, are Great.
He from whose only Pattern may be seen
What MAYORS must be, and what they should have been:
Whose early Vig'lance keeps th' Rebellious in,
That they want Opportunity to sin:
Who stays not calmly till the Law is broke,
But keeps Men stom't, his Eye prevents his stroke:
Who rouzes Justice from her sleeping hole,
Is both the Body of the Law, and Soul:
Who weighs things with an equal steady hand,
And to whose Test Justice her self may stand:
He who does this, and more wou'd you but know,
What ample boon Heaven does on him bestow?
H' has Adam's blessings in his single life,
His Wisdom, Inn'cence, Honour, and no VVife.
Let London lift up her recruited Head:
She's New-born, and her Father is a Maid.
May th' Omen hold, and She forever be
Chast as a Virgin, as a Virgin Free.
When She's again with this daies splendour blest,
Make this brave Pattern th' Epo'che to the rest.
But may no Poetaster of the Times
Send in Sedition crouch'd in Joking Rimes:
Still may all those that rail ad Bishopsgate
Feel an eternal Bedlam in their Pate.
For next to such a PRINCE, and such a Day,
London can only wish, She ever may
Have such a MAYOR, though She still want a Mayoress:
So may the City hope to be His Heiress.
LONDON, Printed M DC LXIX.