Classic Poem

spoken by Mr. King

What various transformations we remark
From east Whitechapel to the west Hyde Park.
Men, women, children, houses, signs and fashions,
State, stage, trade, taste, the humours and the passions;
The Exchange, Change Alley, wheresoe'er your ranging,
Court, city, country, all are changed or changing.
The streets, some time ago, were paved with stones,
Which, aided by a hackney coach, half broke your bones.
The purest lovers then indulged no bliss;
They run great hazard if they stole a kiss.
One chaste salute — the damsel cried " O fie! "
As they approached, slap went the coach awry.
Poor Sylvia got a bump and Damon a black eye.
But now weak nerves in hackney coaches roam,
And the crammed glutton snores, unjolted, home.
Of former times that polished thing a beau,
Is metamorphosed now from top to toe.
Then the full flaxen wig, spread o'er the shoulders,
Concealed the shallow head from the beholders.
But now the whole's reversed — each fop appears
Cropped and trimmed up, exposing head and ears.
The buckle then its modest limits knew;
Now, like the ocean, dreadful to the view,
Hath broke its bounds and swallows up the shoe.
The wearer's foot, like his once fine estate,
Is almost lost, the incumbrance is so great.
Ladies may smile. Are they not in the plot?
The bounds of nature have not they forgot?
Were they designed to be, when put together,
Made up, like shuttlecocks, of cork and feather?
Their pale-faced grandmammas appeared with grace
When dawning blushes rose upon the face.
No blushes now their once-loved station seek;
The foe is in possession of the cheek.
No head of old, too high in feathered state,
Hindered the fair to pass the lowest gate;
A church to enter now they must be bent,
If even they should try the experiment.

As change thus circulates throughout the nation,
Some plays may justly call for alteration,
At least to draw some slender covering o'er
That graceless wit which was too bare before.
Those writers well and wisely use their pens,
Who turn our wantons into Magdalens;
And howsoever wicked wits revile 'em,
We hope to find in you their stage asylum.