NOW in contiguous Drops the Flood comes down,
Threat'ning with Deluge this  Town.
To Shops in Crouds the dagged Females fly,
Pretend to cheapen Goods, but nothing buy.
The Templer spruce, while ev'ry Spout's a-broach,
Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a Coach.
The tuck'd-up Sempstress walks with hasty Strides,
While Streams run down her oil'd Umbrella's Sides.
Here various Kinds by various Fortunes led,
Commence Acquaintance underneath a Shed.
Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs,
Forget their Fewds, and join to save their Wigs.
Box'd in a Chair the Beau impatient sits,
While Spouts run clatt'ring o'er the Roof by Fits;
And ever and anon with frightful Din
The Leather sounds, he trembles from within.
So when  Chair-men bore the Wooden Steed,
Pregnant with , impatient to be freed,
(Those Bully  who, as the Moderns do,
Instead of paying Chair-men, run them thro'.)
struck the Outside with his Spear,
And each imprison'd Hero quak'd for Fear.