But where's this place, this storehouse of the age?
The Moon, says he :-but I affirm, the Stage;
At least in many things, I think, I see
His lunar and our mimic world agree.
Both shine at night, for but at Foote's alone,
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down.
Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,
And sure the folks of both are lunatics.
But in this parallel my best pretence is,
That mortals visit both to find their senses..
To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits,
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits,
The gay coquet, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away,
Hither the affected city dame advancing,
Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing,
Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson.
The gamester too, whose wit's all high or low,
Oft risques his fortune on one desperate throw,
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts,