Where I enjoy in contemplative chamber, 
Lutes, laurels, seas of milk, and ships of amber. 

Through shining crowds you now make way, 
With sideling bow and golden key; 
While wrapped in spleen and easy-chair, 
For all this pomp so small my care, 
I scarce remember who are there. 
Yet in brocade I can suppose 
The potent Knight whose presence goes 
At least a yard before his nose: 
And majesty with sweeping train, 
That does so many yards contain, 
Superior to her waiting nymphs, 
As lobster to attendant shrimps. 
I do not ask one word of news, 
Which country damsels much amuse. 
If a new batch of Lords appears, 
After a tour of half six years, 
With foreign years to grace the nation, 
The Maids of Honour's admiration; 
Whose bright improvements give surprise 
To their own lady-mother's eyes: 
Improvements, such as colts might show, 
Were mares so mad to let them go; 
Their limbs perhaps a little stronger, 
Their manes and tails grown somewhat longer. 
I would not hear of ball-room scuffles, 
Nor what new whims adorn the ruffles. 
This meek epistle comes to tell, 
On Monday, I in town shall dwell; 
Where, if you please to condescend 
In Cavendish-square to see your friend, 
I shall disclose to you alone 
Such thoughts as ne'er were thought upon.