I think, or hope at least, the coast is clear;

That none but men of wit and sense are here;

That our Bear-Garden friends are all away,

Who bounce with hands and feet, and cry, Play, Play;

Who, to save coach-hire, trudge along the street,

Then print our matted seats with dirty feet;

Who, while we speak, make love to orange-wenches,

And, between acts, stand strutting on the benches;

Where got a cock-horse, making vile grimaces,

They to the boxes show their booby faces.

A Merry-Andrew such a mob will serve,

And treat them with such wit as they deserve.

Let them go people Ireland, where there's need

Of such new planters to repair the breed;

Or to Virginia or Jamaica steer,

But have a care of some French privateer;

For, if they should become the prize of battle,

They'll take them, black and white, for Irish cattle.

Arise, true judges, in your own defence,

Controul these foplings, and declare for sense:

For, should the fools prevail, they stop not there,

But make their next descent upon the fair.

Then rise, ye fair; for it concerns you most,

That fools no longer should your favours boast;

'Tis time you should renounce them, for we find

They plead a senseless claim to womankind:

Such squires are only fit for country-towns,

To stink of ale, and dust a stand with clowns;

Who, to be chosen for the land's protectors,

Tope and get drunk before their wise electors.

Let not farce lovers your weak choice upbraid,

But turn them over to the chamber-maid;

Or, if they come to see our tragic scenes,