# THE HIGH Mettled Beauty.

## *Tune--The Race Horfe.*

SEE the Mall throng'd with ladies, the gay and the fair,
See the beaux and the witty to those ladies repair,
Now they ogle, they chatter, and whisper around,
And finger and nonfense is easily found;
With monſterous craws how the sweet ones appear,
So ambling, so trotting, so gay, debonair,
So charming, so nodding, with plumes ſo elate,
The high mettł'd beauty is drest out in flate.

The poet, philofopher, prelate, and peer,
The great and the little, all ranks you'll find here,
The long tails, the bob tails, the finple and wife,
Are all here in fashion, moſt charming diſguſe;
Yet the great and the little, the big and the ſmall,
Alike seem employ'd about nothing at all,
Yet the high mettł'd beauty is order'd by fate,
To nod in high plumes and to amble in flate.

The laſs who is gadding from morning to night,
Her cap and her gown both in pitiful plight,
Perhaps for a trifle is glad to be known,
Tho' her perſon's as pleafing as any town:
The broad grin of ſatire on her is diſpla'd,
Tho' first by his Grace or his Lordſhip betray'd,
While Betsy the gay, and the favourite of fate,
In the Mall nods away, with her feathers elate.

But let the diffiſtinction of drefs be once paff,
And the die of mortify thro' naught at the laſt,
The high mettł'd Poſſy will certainly find,
That like to Dame Fortune Time was not ſo blind;
Difſorders and confidence her mind muſt perſex,
Infirmities teafe and confidence filli vex,
One falls a moſt wretched example by fate,
The other lies rotting and flunking in flate.