A Conference: Between Sir Harry Pierce's Chariot, and Mrs. D. Stopford's Chair

My pretty dear Cuz, tho' I've roved the town o'er,To dispatch in an hour some visits a score;Though, since first on the wheels, I've been every dayAt the 'Change, at a raffling, at church, or a play;And the fops of the town are pleased with the notionOf calling your slave the perpetual motion;--Though oft at your door I have whined out my loveAs my Knight does grin his at your Lady above;Yet, ne'er before this, though I used all my care,I e'er was so happy to meet my dear Chair;And since we're so near, like birds of a feather,Let's e'en, as they say, set our horses together.

By your awkward address, you're that thing which should carry,With one footman behind, our lover Sir Harry.By your language, I judge, you think me a wench;He that makes love to me, must make it in French.Thou that's drawn by two beasts, and carry'st a brute,Canst thou vainly e'er hope, I'll answer thy suit?Though sometimes you pretend to appear with your six,No regard to their colour, their sexes you mix:Then on the grand-paw you'd look very great,With your new-fashion'd glasses, and nasty old seat.Thus a beau I have seen strut with a cock'd hat,And newly rigg'd out, with a dirty cravat.You may think that you make a figure most shining,But it's plain that you have an old cloak for a lining.Are those double-gilt nails? Where's the lustre of Kerry,To set off the Knight, and to finish the Jerry?If you hope I'll be kind, you must tell me what's dueIn George's-lane for you, ere I'll buckle to.

Why, how now, Doll Diamond, you're very alert;Is it your French breeding has made you so pert?Because I was civil, here's a stir with a pox:Who is it that values your ---- or your fox?Sure 'tis to her honour, he ever should bedHis bloody red hand to her bloody red head.You're proud of your gilding; but I tell you each nailIs only just tinged with a rub at her tail;And although it may pass for gold on a ninny,Sure we know a Bath shilling soon from a guinea.Nay, her foretop's a cheat; each morn she does black it,Yet, ere it be night, it's the same with her placket.I'll ne'er be run down any more with your cant;Your velvet was wore before in a mant,On the back of her mother; but now 'tis much duller,--The fire she carries hath changed its colour.Those creatures that draw me you never would mind,If you'd but look on your own Pharaoh's lean kine;They're taken for spectres, they're so meagre and spare,Drawn damnably low by your sorrel mare.We know how your lady was on you befriended;You're not to be paid for 'till the lawsuit is ended:But her bond it is good, he need not to doubt;She is two or three years above being out.Could my Knight be advised, he should ne'er spend his vigourOn one he can't hope of e'er making bigger.