These grave physicians, with their milky cheer,15
The lovesick maid and dwindling beau repair.
Here rows of drummers stand in martial file,
And with their vellum thunder shake the pile,
To greet the new-made bride. Are sounds like these
The proper prelude to a state of peace?20
Now Industry awakes her busy sons:
Full-charg'd with news the breathless hawker runs;
Shops open, coaches roll, carts shake the ground,
And all the streets with passing cries resound.
If cloth'd in black you tread the busy town,25
Or if distinguish'd by the rev'rend gown,
Three trades avoid.—Oft in the mingling press
The barber's apron soils the sable dress:
Shun the perfumer's touch with cautious eye;
Nor let the baker's step advance too nigh.30
Ye walkers! too, that youthful colours wear,
Three sullying trades avoid with equal care.—
The little chimney-sweeper skulks along,
And marks with sooty stains the heedless throng:
When "Small-coal" murmurs in the hoarser throat,
From smutty dangers guard thy threaten'd coat:
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16
TRIVIA.
BOOK II.
