From Brighton to London

Miss Vardill

From Brighton to London, Queen Venus drove up
With Phoebus and Mars at the Regent’s to sup;
But when on the toilet her cestus was laid,
No Graces were ready to offer their aid!

Surpris’d & resentful the Goddess look’d round — 
“What! do I keep three, & not one can be found?
If three lady’s-maids are sufficient no more,
I’ll send to a register-office for four.”

“This moment I’ll fly there,” said Mars, “To oblige you
But pray learn to call it the Therapolegia!
In compounds of Latin my boot-brushers speak,
And glorify black-balls in Hebrew or Greek!”

“Now put on your pelerine, Venus, ’tis late;
Your pigeons are harness’d, the constables wait —” 
“The constables!” — ”Yes, all our parties require them;
And Cupid himself has determin’d to hire them!”

“Well! where are the Graces?” — “at Tilney’s, no doubt,
To wait on the heiress, and patterns cut out:
They’re not at the play or the op’ra, ’tis clear,
They have not been seen there for more than a year.”

Said Phoebus, “Let me as their advocate plead;
The Graces this season are learning to read:
Grown tir’d of Hympus and old-fashion’d play-things
They go to draw lots in — a casket from Athens!

“But if the fair handmaids seem heedless and vain,
And Venus another would add to her train,
Next Wednesday night, or whenever she chooses,
She’ll find a new Grace in the Meeting of Muses!”