So exquisite, so chaste, unique,

The mark for every Leg and Greek,
Who play the concave suit1.
At Almack's, paradise o' the West,

Tom's hand by prince and peer is press'd,

And fashion cries supreme.

His Op'ra box, and little quean,

To lounge, to see, and to be seen,

Makes life a pleasant dream.

Such dreams, alas! are transient light,
A glow of brightness and delight,

That wakes to years of pain.
Tom's round of pleasure soon was o'er,
And clam'rous duns assail the door
When credit's on the wane.
His riches pay his folly's price,
And vanish soon a sacrifice,

Then friendly comrades fly;
His ev'ry foible dragg'd to light,
And faults (unheeded) crowd in sight,
Asham'd to show his face.

Beset by tradesmen, lawyers, bums2,
He sinks where fashion never comes,
A wealthier takes his place.

1 Cards cut in a peculiar manner, to enable the Leg to fleece his Pigeon securely.

"Persons employed by the sheriff to hunt and seize human prey they are always bound in sureties for the due execution of their office, and thence are called Bound Bailiffs, which the common people have corrupted into a much more homely expression— to wit, Bum-Bailiffs, or Bums."-1 Black. Com. 346.

This note was (in my opinion) quite unnecessary.-Printer's Devil.

Beat at all points, floor'd, and clean'd out, Tom yet resolved to brave it out,

If die he must, die game.

Some few months o'er, again he strays

Midst scenes of former halcyon days,

On other projects bent;

No more ambitious of a name,
Or mere unprofitable fame,
On gain he's now intent,
To deal a flush, or cog a die,
Or plan a deep confed'racy
To pluck a pigeon bare.
Elected by the Legs a brother,
His plan is to entrap some other
In Greeking's fatal snare.
Here for a time his arts succeed,
But vice like his, it is decreed,
Can never triumph long:

A noble, who had been his prey,
Convey'd the well cogg'd bones away,
Exposed them to the throng.
Now blown," his occupation's" o'er,
Indictments, actions, on him pour,

His ill got wealth must fly;

And faster than it came, the law
Can fraud's last ill got shilling draw,

Tom's pocket soon drain'd dry.
Again at sea, a wreck, struck down,
By fickle fortune and the town,

Without the means to bolt.

POINT IX.

His days in bed, for fear of Bums,
At night among the Legs he comes,
Who gibe him for a dolt.

He's cut, and comrades, one by one,
Avoid him as they would a dun.

Here finishes our tale

Tom Tick, the life, the soul, the whim
Of courts and fashion when in trim,