T HE Muses here with Churchill's image glow,
And Chaucer's wreaths in fame eternal blow.
A Monarch here, though amorous and brave,
Not his lov'd Mistress from his Queen could save;
Old-fashion'd Wives, that plague this earth no more,
A Rival's aid the modern ribs implore.
It 's true the Ladies here their knives produce;
But gloves , and spoils of theft , are more in use.
Here, emulating Nature's frolic hand,
The taste of Art its Paradise has plann'd:
The Artist here, in hopes it would believe him,
Assur'd the Thames, " it never could forgive him "
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