ON THE Second Entertainment of the Bachelors 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' unmarried Ladies, that were met  
To see your Pomp, are fight in the street.  
Th' have pined away, e'er since their former sight,  
With the Green-Sickness, all; but now they'll sighed.  
While this Man's Face was praised, and that Man's Foot,  
One Gallants Perruque, and another's Suit,  
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'll spoil all their Faces.  
They rave (alas!) to think their destinies  
Have Damned 'em Maids, till You'll be otherwise.  
Th' are tantalised; what would you have them 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'll prove th' inverted Story true,  
And will (I fear) commit a Rape on You.—  
— But I'll no longer' fright you, bened 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 begged th' young City Ladies this day's Play:  
But they must Fast upon their Holiday.  
They were both gallant Sights; but 'troth 'tis pity,  
Maids may Adorn, but ne'er can Make a City:  
And Maids and Bachelors are a finer sight  
For a Summer's Day, than for a Winter's Night.   

Pray, Gallants, think upon't; but for to day  
Eat, drink, be jovial:— let the Ladies stay.  
If to their Healths you'll drink a Glass or two,  
I dare be bold they'll 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 foe nobly filled, as if last Fleet  
Had brought home no Commodity, but Meat:  
And Wines so rich and costly, as if there was  
Cleopatra's Pearl dissolved in every 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'er so great a Sinner,  
And keep a long Thanksgiving, for the Dinner.  
Those nauseous stomaches 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 men's 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 stomed, 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 herself may stand:  
He who does this, and more would you but know,  
What ample boon Heaven does on him bestow?  
HE has Adam's blessings in his single life,  
His Wisdom, Inn'cence, Honour, and no Wife.   

Let London lift up her recruited Head:  
She's Newborn, and her Father is a Maid.  
May th' Omen hold, and She forever be  
chaste as a Virgin, as a Virgin Free.  
When She's again with this day's splendour blest,  
Make this brave Pattern th' Epo'che to the rest.  
But may no Poetaster of the Times  
Send in Sedition crouched in Joking Rhymes:  
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.