The Country-Man's Farewell to LONDON.  
OR, A Broadside against Pride.  

LEt's stem the Tide, though vanity be grown,  
A Torrent that quite over-whelms the Town;  
Though horrid Atheism, and Bawdy fits,  
Are thought the noblest flights of modera Wits,  
Yet thou, free muse! who always didst disdain  
To bear a part in the illustrious Train  
Of thriveing Vice; may'st with deserved Rhymes  
Bleed (whilst the Dog-days last) our Brainsick times:  
But stay— To charm these Adders don't engage,  
Satyrs are thrown away on such an Age;  
Heaven in loud Judgements has proclaimed its ire,  
Sad Wars, dire Plagues, and all-amazing Fire,  
Yet Wars, nor Plagues, nor Fire can us restrain,  
But still we grow more giddy, still more vain;  
And think'st thou with soft scratches of a Pen  
For to reclaim such brutified Men,  
They're resolutely Deaf, and it appears,  
Before they'll hear, thunder must boar their Ears.   

Pride, that at first made devils, now has hurled  
Its bane on men, and divelized the World,  
Humility is banished, and we meet  
Whole swarms of Lucifers in every street;  
See how the haughty dust and ashes walks  
As if he could unhinge the Poles; and talks  
Such Hogan Mogan words, as might outvie  
(Were they but true) the Laws of Destiny;  
Our shaggy Gallants with prodigious Locks,  
(Supplies of thatch blown off by early Pox)  
Appear like Hairy Comets, that fore-show  
Effiminated Follies Overthrow;  
Our Swaggerers with Arms a Kembo Huff,  
And all must give the wall to Mounsiour Puff,  
That walking Mercer's shop, a thing that owes  
His very Essence to New-fashioned clothes,  
And them to some confiding Stitch, who must  
As long as Drapers for Nolls mourning trust;  
Poor painted Butterflies, whose souls scarce save  
Their Carp from stinking, on this side a Grave;  
Who can but laugh, to see these pert Buffoons  
With empty Pockets, but vast Pantaloons:  
Whose dangling points rattle about their Trouzes  
Like Hen and Chickens in our Country Houses:  
Their Copper Hatbands counterfeiting gold,  
And fresh New Long-Lane Suits some ten years old,  
Whole Lordships laid on upstart Squires back,  
And Sunday-Cloak that makes a whole Shop crack;  
Are these, proud Fool! thy ways to gain repute,  
T'undo thyself for credit of a Suit?  
Reason directs our clothes to regulate,  
Suiting our birth, our breeding, or estate,  
For he that Flaunts beyond his pedigree,  
Forgets his homespun Parents, and must be  
The mark of Envies shot; he that does wear  
A braver Garb than his weak Purse can bear,  
Undoes his children; and the Gaudy Fop,  
Whose unbecoming Fineries o'er top,  
His course mechanic parts, do what he can,  
Is but a gay incongruous gentleman;  
Nor may we less of th' other Sex complain,  
Who think it their just privilege to be vain;  
Idols, that half their precious minutes pass  
Between the Dressing-box and Looking-glass,  
Whilst the short refidue's squandered away  
I'th' wanton bed, vain visits, or a play;  
Like speckled Serpents some of them appear,  
And even borrow the faces that they wear,  
March under vices colours, patch and Paint,  
Whitewash and Dawbney to make the Devil seem Saint,  
Disguised with fruzzled Towers they look like Bulls,  
But plant the horns of't on their Husband's skulls;  
With rolling Eyes they walk, and powdered crests,  
Wanton affected Gate, and plumped breasts,  
Whose panting and inviting motions show  
Too plain how much a stray their fancies go.   

Nor is it only the profaner Crew  
That these soul-murthering vanities pursue  
Those that pretend unto far better things,  
We find of late this growing Serpent stings;  
They will like Dinah too view Hamors Land,  
And with his Daughters in like fashions stand,  
Oh! why, dear souls, will you so much decline  
Sobriety, which once did make you shine  
I'th' eyes of God, of Saints, and of the world,  
Without your tawdry dresses, or Locks curled,  
Suits your profession with fond Toys and laces?  
Your wigs and Fans, and Hoods like spotted faces?  
Your Magpie gowns, and fagotted up sleeves,  
Wherein your guilty arms are bound like Thiefs;  
For shame forbear, the wise King tells you all  
A proud and haughty mind foreruns a Fall;  
Leave off your gaudy Trifles and strange dress,  
Left God refuse to know you in distrefs;  
And then stripped of your wanton plumes you must,  
Do rueful penance in Sack cloth and dust.    

With Allowance.   
FINIS.  

Printed by A. P. for J. Conniers, at the Sign of the Black-Raven in Duck-lane.