The mysteries of love & eloquence, or, The arts of wooing and complementing as they are manag'd in the Spring Garden, Hide Park, the New Exchange, and other eminent places : a work in which is drawn to the life the deportments of the most accomplisht persons, the mode of their courtly entertainments, treatments of their ladies at balls, their accustom'd sports, drolls and fancies, the witchcrafts of their perswasive language in their approaches, or other more secret dispatches ...

The Mode of Hide Park.

MAdam, That free Interest which you have granted me in your Favour, ho∣nours me with a boldness to give you an invitation this fair afternoon, to take the Air in Hide Park.

Your most humble servant, Sir, I'le assure you, had you not come as you did, you might perchance have found me there before you, for my Cousin here and I were taking up a resolution to be jogging that way.

I'le assure you, Madam, your journey will not want its plea∣sure, beside that of the season, if the Town news hold true.

I see you came, Sir, with a resolution not to be deny'd, having brought an argument so perswasive to Women, as that of Novelty; but pray what is it?

Madam, they say, Sir Charles—hath put off his mourn∣ing-weeds, and appears this day in the Park with a new Coach and Livery: they report he looks with an amorous Counte∣nance upon the young Lady—to whom he intends, as they say, to give a Treatment at the Spring Garden; so that if Businesses be well manag'd on her side, it may chance to be a match. But, pray give me leave, I heard lately that the old Countess—is dead.

Very true, Madam, I was this morning at a Drapers shop in Pauls Church-yard, and there came in her Steward to provide Four hundred pounds worth of Mourning.

Do's it not bring a very great addition to my Lords Estate?

Doubtless Madam, a very considerable one; for she was al∣ways a near and parcimonious Woman, and indeed was con∣siderable for nothing else, but the affection she bare him. I could tell you more, Madam, but I defer the rest for discourse in the Coach.

In the Ring.

Coachman, keep the out-side of the Ring, I think, Madam, that way will not be so dusty. This is the voice of a Gen∣tleman that would shew a more then ordinary care of his Mistress.

Much discourse cannot be expected from that restless mo∣tion of Wheels and Horses, it being only a preparative for treatment talk; neither indeed in that place of Observation, is more required, then only as occasion serves, to tell your Lady, That is my Lord such a ones Coach; That's my Lady such a one; That's Squire such a one. And then when opportunity offers it self, to say, Your humble Servant; my Lord; Your most humble Servant, Madam. For though it be not so great a sin, yet it is as great a Solecism, as to talk at Church; and they shall be counted as shallow persons, that can give no account of what they have seen here, as those that can remem∣ber nothing that they have heard spoken to a Text. This is not without reason, for it being an impossibility for Ladies to travel, it was thought fit that there should be a publick Meet∣ing

of all sorts of Societies and Habits, both Forreign and Domestique, that so those young and tender Gallants might be spar'd the labour of going beyond Sea.

In the spaces among the Coaches there walk up and down Objects of Charity, and Enticements to Liberality.

Beggars, and Fruiterers, who are bold Wenches, and by their own, well knowing the disposition of other Women, with their Eyes fix'd upon the Ladies, and their Ware held up to the Gentlemen, they cry so as they may easily be heard,

My Lord, Will your Honour have any Civil Oranges! Madam, Will your Honour buy a Basket of Cherries!

The Gentleman finds himself surpriz'd, but knows not which to give, Oranges or Cherries; yet at length remembring Oranges. how great whetters of the stomach they are, and deeply considering the price of Cheesecakes, he resolves up∣on Cherries.

Then quoth he, How do you sell your Cherries, good Woman? A Crown a Ba••ket, my Lord, quoth she; with which word being extreamly pleased, he parts chearfully with his mo∣ney (for who would not purchase Honour at any Rate) and then presents his new bought treasure to his Lady in these words:

Madam, I do here present you with these First-fruits of the Year, which would have been due from Pomona her self, had she not forgot the duty that she owes your per∣fections.

The Lady makes a short reply, well knowing the end of his kindness, which was to stop her mouth.

Whether Cherries are diuretick or no, I will not here di∣spute; however, the Coachman presently after hath a com∣mand given him to wheel off, and the Lady finds in her self a disposition to walk on foot toward the Brakes: yet she is not so much tormented, but that she can talk; which is com∣monly much to this effect:

Really, Sir, I have not seen so great an appearance of com∣pany in the Park all this Spring before.

Madam, it was the lustre of your person drew'em hither, and doubtless having now seen you, they will have no cause to repent their coming.

Sir, you have a strong faith to speak so highly of one whom you have known no otherwise then in the formalities of a Vi∣sit?

I wish I that know my self better, knew my self so well as to confirm your Encomiums.

Madam, that lies not on your part to do, for wherefore hath Nature granted Man to excell in the invention of Lan∣guage, but that she would not so far deprave the dignity of the Female, which is her own Sex, as to make them the vain∣glorious praisers of themselves; and it is retaliation sufficient in you, to favour us with the acceptance of our Labours. I confess I am fallen upon a subject that I could dwell upon; I could make a particular harange in the praise of every part that builds up the noble Frame of your Body, but I am put to silence by that little Bird which warbles tydings of more con∣cernment to your ears. Do you not hear the Nightingale Madam?

I do, Sir. And indeed it is the first time I have heard her this Spring. They say it is lucky to unmarried people to hear her before the Cuckow.

Doubtless then, Madam, the end that brought her hither, was to bring you that good fortune.

Sir, It cannot be but that you must have a greater share in her happy Auguries, who better deserve them.

I should then, Madam, deserve your self, which is the hap∣piest Augury I can expect. Pardon me, Madam; if you have open'd my mouth to utter so great crime; for indeed I could say, I love you, but that I fear lest you should frown me into despair for such a high presumption.

Believe it, Sir, my ambition never aspir'd to such thoughts, as you would fain put into me; but if you have idly scatter'd a little respect upon a person no way meriting, doubtless a few dayes and another Object will soon randezvouze your Passions another way.

Madam, could any protestation avail to fix my Constancy in your belief, you should soon command me to seal my pro∣strate Vows upon the Ground on which you tread; yet since that cannot be, I onely beg this on my knees, That you will still count me your Servant, whom it shall suffice to be ho∣noured with that Liberty which you have hitherto given, till time shall discover my immutable Affection, and the pro∣firable Testimonies of my Obedience.

The Gentleman resolves now to strike while the Iron is hot, and to win her with kindness; for which end he carries her to

the Lodge, and throws away forty or fifty shillings to please her appetite; and to shew her that he was not so much cove∣tous of his Money, as of her Good Will: He breaks up Cheesecakes, cuts up Tarts, and calls in for Wine and Sugar, as if his Mistress had a Legion in her belly; though his ob∣servance is such that he eats nothing himself, for fear she should have a desire to any particular plum in his morsel, In drinking, he sweetens her Affection with a great deal of Sugar with an humble obeysance, wishing it were Nectar for her sake. She cannot be so unmannerly as not to drink to him, there being no body else in the room, which he takes for a very great kindness, and wishes for the capacious throat of the great Gyant, that he might swill up a whole pipe for joy. The Wine inspires him, and produces many extravagant Vows, and sundry Comments on her Hands, Lips, Eyes, and Forehead; which beget an host of Comparisons, putting such a scorn and contempt upon the Sun and Moon, as if they were but meer Candles of Ten in the pound, subject to be capt by every common Extinguisher. At length, emboldned by a surreptitious vapor, upon the merits of his Oblation, he craves a kiss, which being granted, with a high satisfaction he calls to pay. This is the meek spirited Lover. But that bold Mamaluck Yelep'd, a Hector, courts his Lady more daringly.

Madam, cryes he, By Heaven I love you, and then he falls down with a submissive reverence, and kisses the hem of her Petticoat; then arising up again, he proceeds, Madam there is no person living bears you a greater respect then I, or car∣ries more affection for you in his bosom then my self; make trial of it, Madam, and though you bid me die, I'le do it willingly.

He comes into the Park, like the son of Death, arm'd with the accouterments of Mortality, Sword and Pistol? he stands not much upon the nicety of Habit, so his Belt be not out of fashion. He is generally known in the Ring, and every one salutes him by the name of Tom or Jack such a one, whose kindness he requites with an Oath, and an Humble Servant: and so having done his Evening Exercise, he retires to the Lodge, where he spends his money with such a liberality, as if he bore malice to his fortunes.

The next variety is that of the Horse-Races, the general Terms of which Art, are exprest in these following Dia∣logues.

1. Gent. In good faith, Sir, that Horse must have wings that beats me.

2. Sir, your confidence may deceive you, you will ride with a Jocky that hath Horsemanship.

1. Pish, that's but your opinion; I'le tell ye what I say to ye, were it in my power, I'de lay the World upon my Mare, that she should run with the Devil for a hundred pleces.

The Gentlemen to the Jocky.

1. How now, what dost think Jocky?

2. The crack of the whole Field is against you.

Jocky. Let'm crack and be hang'd till their lungs ake.

Gentlemen.

1. What weight?

2. I think he has the Heels.

3. All that you are to do, Jocky, is to get the start.

Jocky. I'le warrant you, if I get within his quarters once, let me alone.

After Starting.

1. Twenty pounds to fifteen.

2. 'Tis done with you.

3. Forty pounds to thirty.

Lord. Done, done, I'le take the odds.

1. My Lord, I hold as much.

L. Not so, Sir.

1. Forty pounds to twenty.

L. Done, done.

2. You have lost all, my Lord, and 'twere a million.

L. In your imagination, well, who can help it.

〈◊〉〈◊〉. Crop had the start, and keeps it.

The Loser.

Gentlemen, you have a sine time to triumph, 'tis not your Odds that makes you win.

Upon the fatal disaster that befell the Gallants upon May-day last in Hide-Park.

THe last sad May-day know ye not? It was a fatal day, God wot, Which gay new Clothes did all bespot With mire and dirt.

Much might be said of other days first, For which that Year ought to be curst, That such inhumane Traitors nurst To do men hurt.

Sad to the Romans was that day When they from Hannibal ran away, Losing their gold Rings in the fray, He did so rout 'em.

Was not dark Monday sad d'ye think, When Phoebus look'd as black as ink, 'Twas all one whether men did wink Or stare about 'em.

That day had made your hearts to ake, If Faux's plot had hap'd to take, Of which the Crums of Comfort make A large recital.

And that sad day my heart doth nettle When Fire on London-bridge did settle, And Thames boyl'd under like a kettle: Men read at Whitehall.

By the vast Flame: Though at this hour, I blame not fire, but a great shower, Which Heaven did on clean linen powr, And Blades a horse-back.

For all that are but worth a groat, On May-day will in fine clothes show't, Some borrow a Belt, and some a loose coat, That money in purse lack.

First the clear Sun-shine did invite The Lord, the Lady, and the Knight, Who all in Satins richly dight, Did sit i'th boot.

The Race-nags follow'd more then ten, Upon their backs sate Gentlemen, They never were so wash'd as then From head to foot.

In sutes. from France, made a la mode, Upon their Barbaries they rode; Oh had their money been bestow'd In pious uses:

T'would ha' built an Hospital in the Strand, For Gentlemen that sell their Land, Or a Poet a week in Sack maintain'd, With all his Muses.

To copy out these Fashions then, For Male and Female Citizen, The Taylor came, as fine as when He went to woe,

Next came those pillars of the Nation, Those polishers of Education, Hight men oth' Kit, all in the fashion From top to toe.

Phoebus withdrew his beams to see Such a deal of bravery, And scorning thus outvied to be By low mortality:

He put on's cap, cryes bonas noches, Then pist, and flung it all ith' Coaches; Quoth he, I'le meet with these Cocaloches For all their great quality:

The Barber, Taylor, and Gentleman eke, They rid each one a tree to seek; They were so sad they could not speak, But sigh'd at each other.

They lookt on the ground with great regret, They lookt on the sky, and cry'd not yet! Then for being born, their stockins to wet, Each curses his mother.

But when their hats began to drip, Then desperation made them weep, And so they put on with spur and whip To London:

But, Oh the saddle of velvet blue,

And stockins of most glorious hew, They now were not fit for the stall of a Jew: Some men were undone,

Then came another in a sad case, With a handful of dirt dasht in his face, Which he wip'd with his band of Flanders lace, Who could him blame,

His Feather, that so gay of late Adorn'd his head, lay now so flat, You'ld think it were crept into his hat For very shame.

But as they pass'd quite through the street, The Alley-women glad to see't, From stalls and cellars did them greet With many a flour.

Most patiently they pass'd along, They took no notice who did'm wrong: But I must make an end of my Song. The candle's out.