Page:Trivia (John Gay) to which is added London (Samuel Johnson) (1809).djvu/66

56 Nay, she will oft the quaker's hood profane, And trudge demure the rounds of Drury-lane. She darts from sarcenet ambush wily leers, Twitches thy sleeve, or with familiar airs Her fan will pat thy cheek: these snares disdain; Nor gaze behind thee when she turns again. I knew a yeoman who, for thirst of gain, To the great city drove, from Devon's plain, His num'rous lowing herd: his herds he sold, And his deep leathern pocket bagg'd with gold. Drawn by a fraudful nymph, he gaz'd, he sigh'd: Unmindful of his home, and distant bride, She leads the willing victim to his doom, Through winding alleys, to her cobweb room. Thence through the street he reels from post to post, Valiant with wine, nor knows his treasure lost. The vagrant wretch th' assembled watchmen spies; He waves his hanger, and their poles defies: Deep in the roundhouse pent, all night he snores, And the next morn in vain his fate deplores.
 * Ah, hapless swain! unus'd to pains and ills,

Canst thou forego roast-beef for nauseous pills?