A Description of Spring in London

Now new-vampt silks the mercer's window shows, And his spruce prentice wears his sunday cloaths, His annual suit with nicest taste renew'd, The reigning cut and colour still pursued. The barrow now, with oranges a score, Driven by at once a gamester and a whore, No longer gulls the stripling of his pence, Who learns that poverty is nurse to sense. Much-injur'd trader whom the law pursues, The law which wink'd, and beckon'd to the Jews, Why should the beadle drive thee from the street? To sell is always a pretence to cheat. " Large stewing oysters" in a deepening groan, No more resounds, nor "mussels" shriller tone; Seven days to labour now is held no crime, And Moll "new mackrel" screams in sermon-time. In ruddy bunches radishes are spread, And Nan with choice-pickt fallads loads her head. Now in the suburb window, Christmas green, The bays and holly are no longer seen, But sprigs of garden-mint in vials grow, And gather'd laylocks perish as they blow. The truant school-boy now at eve we meet, Fatigued and sweating thro' the crouded street, His shoes embrown'd at once with dust and clay, With white-thorn loaded, which he takes for May. Round his flapp'd hat in rings the cowslips twine, Or in cleft osiers form a golden line. On milk-pail rear'd the borrow'd salvers glare, Topp'd with a tankard, which two porters bear, Reeking they slowly toil o'er rugged stones, And joyless beldames dance with aking bones: More blithe the powder'd tye-wigg'd sons of soot, Trip to the shovel with a shoeless foot. In gay Vaux-hall now saunter beaux and belles, And happier cits resort to Sadler's-wells.