People, Society & Culture of Tunbridge Wells in the 18th Century & later.

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That Fig-leaf for a Woman's honour,
Who scarce could hide it if upon-her;
Or rather in a Marry'd Life,
A Cloak for some adult'rous Wife,
Fit to beneath no Title pass,
But Cuckold, Lap-Dog, Beau, or Ass :
His peaceful Sword in length may vigh, With GaunVs that does i' th' Tow'r ly; And for his Wig tho' he's so small, 'Twould fit a Giant in Guild-Hall, And hangs so low beneath his Wits, That 'tis his Cusheon as he sits, And when he stands a foot it reaches, Below the Wastband of his Breeches, That sure no Porcupine when spightful, Can look so bristly, and so frightful : All Danger he abhors, and loves A Scuffle worse than dirty Gloves, But will as most Beau Cowards do, His Footmen to the mischief loo, But safe himself at distance stands, Looing his Dogs, and Clapping Hands, So Dastards often Quarrels make, But of the Danger won't pertake, Knowing 'tis always good to keep-in Mem'ry, a whole Skin's best to sleep-in. Some Ladies in the Walks long since, Have spit in 's face for 's Impudence; The Itch being Cur'd by fasting Spittle, They thought 'twould Manners mend a little, But found the spightful application, Caus'd very little Alteration;
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