A CHARACTER OF London-Village,  By a Countrey-Poet. 

A Village! Monstrous! 'Tis a mighty Beast,  
Behemoth, or Leviathan at least;  
Or like some Wilderness, or vast Meander,  
Where to find Friends one long enough may wander.  
The Towering Chimneys like a Forest Show,  
At whose low Branches do Balconies grow.  
When I came there at first, I Gazed round,  
And thought myself upon Enchanted Ground;  
Or else that I (in Rapture being hurled)  
Was lately Dead, and this was th'other World.  
But was Surprised with Doubts, and could not tell  
Which of the two 'twas, whether Heaven or Hell:  
The Noise and Shows my Eyes and Ears invade,  
By Coaches, Cries, and glittering Gallants made▪  
My Reason was Convinced in a Trice  
That it was neither, But Fool's Paradise;  
Ladies I saw, not Handsome one in ten;  
Great store of Knights, and some few Gentlemen.  
Fine Fellows Flaunting up and down the Streets,  
Where Fop and Flutter Each the Other Greets;  
Each Mimic Posture does an Ape present,  
While Humble-Servant, Ends the Compliment.  
For Garb and Colour there's no certain Rule,  
Here is your Red, your Blue; your Yellow-Fool.  
Most of these Gallants seem to view Refined;  
The Outside wondrous Gay, but Poorly Lined.  
I saw some of them in the Playhouse-Pit,  
Where they three hours in Conversation sit,  
Laugh and Talk Loud, but scarce a grain of Wit.  
The Ladies to Ensnare will something say,  
Tending to show the Brisk Gallants their way,  
But scorn as much to Prattle Sense as they.  
Here comes a Hero Covered close from Air,  
By Porters born in a Silk-Curtain'd-Chair.  
Whose Sire in honest Russet Trailed a Blow,  
And with Stout flail Conquered the Haughty Mow.  
Next after him, is by six Horses drawn,  
A piece of Logwood, in a Coach alone,  
Looking like Scanderbag on Every one.  
Who soon a whispering Bawd softly invites,  
To a new Suburb Miss, and there he Lights.  
But at some little distance from the place,  
Handsome she seems, all Covered over with Lace.  
That nearer shows an old and ugly Face.  
There goes a Brisk Young Lass in a Gay Dress,  
Here an Old Crone in Youthful Gawdyness.  
Strange Miracles of Nature here are placed!  
Ill Favoured Wenches, Cracks; some Fair, are chaste.  
The Temperate, Sick: Great Drinkers live in Health.  
Here Usurers have Wit, and Poet's Wealth.  
The Coffee House, the Rendezvouz of Wits,  
Is a Compound of Gentlemen and Cits;  
And not all Wise, or else their Wits they Smother,  
They sit as if Afraid of One Another  
So Pickpocket (when Deeper Lifter's by)  
Budging aloof, Disowns the Mystery.  
In comes a Cockt-up Bully, Looking big,  
With Deep fringed Elbow-Gloves, and Ruffled Wig,  
He turns his Back to th'▪ Chimney, with a Grace,  
Singing and Staring in each Stranger's Face;  
Talks Mighty things, his late Intrigues, and then  
Sups off his Dish, and out he struts Agen.  
And as I Rambled through this Quondam-City,  
I looked on Founding Paul's with Tears of Pity;  
But wiping off, with an Auspicious Smile,  
Being like to Rise the Glory of this Isle,  
Village, for now to you I tell my Tale;  
You have Produced a Mountain from a Dale:  
The Country thought the Fire had quite undone ye,  
But now I find you have both Zeal and Money.  
I crossed the Thames much broader than the Brook,  
Where I have Bathed, and little Fishes took.  
From Bear-Garden I Westminster might view,  
And though their Outside looked of different hue,  
Yet there in each is so much Noise and Pother,  
I scarce knew how to Difference one from th'other  
But at the Court indeed I saw great Things,  
The Noblest Subjects, and the Best of KINGS:  
These things I did observe, and many more,  
But Tired with the Relation, I'll give over.    

London, Printed for J. ALLEN. 1684.