A Town-Gallant is a Bundle of Vanity, composed of Igno­rance and Pride, Folly, and Debauchery; a silly Huffing thing, three parts Fop, and the rest Hector: A kind of Walking Mercers shop: that shews one Stuff to day, and another to morrow, and is valuable just according to the price of his Suit, and the merits of his Taylor: A Spawn of Gentility, that inherits only the Vices of his Ancestors, and is like to entail nothing but Infamy and Diseases on Poste­rity. His first care is his Dress, and next his Body, and in the fitting these two together, consists his Soul and all its Faculties. His Trade is making of Love, yet he knows no difference between that and Lust; and tell him of a Virgin at Sixteen, he shall swear then Miracles are not ceas'd. He is so bitter an Enemy to Marriage, that one would suspect him born out of Lawful Wedlock, For he never hears Matrimony nam'd, but he sweats and starts as bad as at the Salute of a Serjeant, and has 40. Lines of [...]jegium Conjurgium, got ready by heart to rail at it. But for the most delicious Regre­ation of Whoring, he protests a Gentleman cannot live without it; And vows Mahomet was a brave Bully and deserves to be Worshipped, because he had the wit to make his Paradice a Seraglio, and the Joyes of the Bliss to con­sist of plump Wenches, &c. The Devil has taught him Chymistry, where­by he can extract Baudry out of the most modest Language. So that he makes Cai [...] speak it, And turns Admonitions into obscenity. For his mind is a Room hung round with Aretines Pictures, and the Contemplation of them is all his Devotion: Every thing with him is an incentive to Lust, and every Woman Devil enough to tempt him, Covent-Garden Silk-Gowns, and Wapping Wast-coateers, are equally his Game, for he watches Wenches just as Tumblers do Rabbets, and plays with Women as he does at Cards, not caring what Sult he turns up Trump.

All his Talk is Rhodomontade and Bounce, calling a Noble-man Jack as familiarly as his Foot-boy, and seldom naming a Lord without adding, My Cozen: Whatever he does, he cries is like a Gentleman, and indeed tis only like it as a Broakers Ware is to a Mercers, or Long-lane compar'd to Cheap­side; for he is a Wit of an under Region, that does but Zany the truly [Page 2] Brave and Noble, grosly imitating on the Low Rope, what t'other does near­ly on the Higher. He Confers Titles of Honour on all his shabby Compa­nions, to create himself the greater esteem with his Land-Lady (who adores him as a more accomplisht Knight, than she ever met with in Parismus or Amadis of Gaul.) And when he is going to take a Run with a Common Crack in the Park, Swears he has an Assignation from a Lady of extraordina­ry Quality. His Hangers on call him Man of Blood, and by his own Report he is as stout as a Turkey-Cock, yet, he never was in any Service, but building Sconces; nor Duel, but with his own Foot-boy or a Drawer; for he is so Prudent as not to Exercise his Courage against any that dare turn again, and has got more Bastards than ever he made Fatherless Children; yet perhaps at first he will be Saucy, and bluster like the four Winds in Painting, but if you begin to be as high as he, strait the Bubble breaks, and then he Swears, — I Gad sir, I ever honoured you, but you are a passionate Gentle­man, and will not understand a jest.

Think not because I repeat so oft he Swears, that I Tautologize in his Character, tis only to make the Picture more like the Life, for all his Dis­courses are Butter'd with Oaths, which he uses Euphoniae gratia, and is as cu­rious in their Newness as the Fabon: In which he seems a Kinsman to the Man in the Moon, for every Moneth he's in a New Mode, and instead of true Gallantry (which once dwelt in the Breasts of Englishmen) he is made up of Complements, Cringes, Knots, Fancies, Perfumes, and a thousand French Apish Tricks, which render him only fit to be set on a Farmers Hovel to scare away Crows. He placeth his very Essence in his outside, and his only Prayers are, that his Father may go to the Devil expeditiously, and the Estate hold out to keep his Miss, and himself in good Equipage. He thinks it the rankest Heresie in the World, to believe any Man can be Wise or Noble, that is in plain Cloaths. And therefore looks down with Con­tempt on every body, whose Wigg is not right Flaxon; And calls the whole Tribe of Levy dull Fellows, because they go in Black, and wonders any People should think they can ever speak Sence, When they wear nei­ther Lac'd Crevats, nor Pantaloons.

To trace him ab origine, His Breeding was under the wing of a too In­dulgent Mother, who took a World of pains to make him a Fool, and at­tain'd her end at the Age of Discretion. At School he learn'd only how to Rob Orchards, and the Generosity of Bribing other Boys to make his Exercise. And staid at the University just long enough to Commence Drun­kard, and get by heart the name of his Colledge to vapour with; from thence be posted to one of the Inns of Court; but in four Years time, never read six Lines in Littleton, for he lov'd a Placket better than a Moot-case, and was more in his Mercers Books, than in Cocks, or Plowdeas. For Learning he says is Pedantry, unbecoming a Gentleman; and Law, a thing fit on­ly for Draggle-tayld Gown-men, that have no way of raising a Fortune, but by setting (two civil Gentlemen) John-a-Noaks, and John-a-Stiles together by the Ears: He has got a shorter Cut to all Arts and Sciences, than Ray­mund Lully, with his Ars Mirabilis; and thinks the Seven Wise-Men of Greece, meer Ignoramusses, to one that understands the Humours of the Town. 'Tis but wearing Fashionable Cloaths, talking loud, and Laughing at all one does not understand, and the business is done.

His whole Library consists of the Academy of Complements, Venus un­dress'd, [Page 3]Westminster Drollery, half a dozen Plays, and a Bundle of Bawdy Songs in Manuscript, yet he's a shrew'd Linguist. Impudence he calls the Boon Assurance, and unmannerliness, the Genteel Negligence. He talks no­thing but Intrigues, Gust [...]'s, Garnitures, Repartees and such modish Fustian, which he Hedges in on all occasions, or indeed without any, and if you bar but forty words, you strike him Dumb. He admires the Eloquence of, Son of a Whore, when 'tis pronounced with a good Grace, and therefore applyes it to every thing; So that if his Pipe be faulty, or his Purge Gripe too much, 'Tis a Son of a Whores Pipe, and a Spawn of a Bitches Purge. For New-minted Phrases he has much enricht our Language: 'Twas he brought, I beg your Diversion, into fashion, and may have a Patent for the sole use (as first Inventer) of that Noble Complement, Let me be Damn'd, and my Body made a Gridiron to Broil my Soul on, to Eternity, If I do not Ma­dam, love you confoundedly.

Till Noon he lies a bed, to digest his over-nights Debaucht, and then having Drest himself, and paid half an hours Adoration to his own sweet Image in the Looking-glass, he Trails along the Streets, observing who ob­serves him, to the French Ordinary, where he swills his Paunch with good Cheer and Burgunds, and tells at Dinner, how his Physick workt last night, and Swears never any Clap plagu'd him half so much as that he has now upon him. Cursing his Doctor for a Quacking-Bastard, that understands a Gentlemans Disease no more than a Farryer. After this, the Coach is call'd to hurry him to the Play-house, where he advances into the middle of the Pit, struts about a while, to render his good parts Conspicuous, pulls out his Comb, Carreens his Wigg, Hums the Orange-Wench, to give her, her own rates for her China-Fruit, and immediately Sacrifices the fairest of them, to the shrine of the next Vizor Mask. Then gravely sits down, and falls half asleep, unless some petulant Wench hard by, keep him awake with treading on his Toe, or a wanton Complement; Yet all on a sudden to shew his Judgment, and prove himself at once a Wit and a Critick, he starts up, and with a Tragical Face, Damns the Play, though he have not heard [...]at least understood two Lines of it. However, when 'tis done, he picks up a Miss, and pinching her fingers in a soft Tone, and looks most abomina­bly Languishing, he Whispers, Damn me, Madam! If you were but sensi­ble, and all that of the Passion I have for you; and the Flames which your irresistable Charms, and all that have kindled in my Breast, you would be merciful, and Honour me with your Angelical Company, to take a Draught of Loves Posset at next Tavern. But if he finds her honest, and cannot pre­vail, then he cries aloud, Damn ye for a Puritanical Whore, what make you in the Pit here: The Twelve-penny Gallery with Camblet Cloaks, and Foot-boys is good enough for you. And so raises his Seige, and leaves her.

Whither he goes next, I dare not follow him, for 'tis certainly a Baw­dy-house, by what Name or Title soever it may be Dignified or Distingui­shed: Here he meets a Squadron of his Fellow Gallants, and having height­ned their Spirits with Jollity and Wine, they are fit for any thing but Ci­vility: And when they vouchsafe to Ramble homewards, about One or Two a Clock in the Morning, they set up the dreadful Sa, sa, more dangerous to meet, than an Indian Running a Muck. In these Heroick humours hath many a Watch-man had his Horns Batter'd about his Ears; [Page 4]and the trembling Constable been put besides the Gravity of his Interroga­tories, and forced to measure his Length upon the Ground. The first man they meet they Swear to Kill, and set all the Women on their Heads; and so they proceed till the ratling of Broken Glass Windows, the shreiks of distressed Damosels, and the Thunder of their own Oaths, and Execra­tions, fills all the Neighbour-hood with horror, and makes them verily Con­clude, That the Devil and all his Life-Guard are going a Processioning.

Next Morning, his Taylor, his Mercer, his Haberdasher, and his Sempiress, stand all like a Guard of Switzers about his Chamber door, waiting his Up­rising: To avoid the Gauling of whose small Shot, He instantly dispatches a Light Horse-man, to call Mr. Glister-pipe his Apothecary, Who encoun­tring this desperate Band of Creditors, only with two or three Glasses, as though that day he had Purged, drives them all to their Holes, like so ma­ny Foxes. For the name of Physick is the only Amulet against a Dun, and a sufficient Quietus [...]est, to any beleaguer'd Gentleman.

Thus the Iliads of our Gallants Accomplishments, may be Crampt up in a Nut-shell. His three Cardinal Vertues, being only Swearing, Wench­ing, and Drinking; and if other mens lives may be compared to a Play, his is certainly but a Farce, which is acted only on three Scenes. The Or­dinary, the Play-House, and the Tavern. His Religion (for now and then he will be pratling of that too) is pretendedly Hobbian: And he Swears the Leviathan may supply all the lost Leaves of Solomon, yet he never saw it in his life, and for ought he knows, it may be a Treatise about catch­ing of Sprats, or new Regulating the Green-land Fishing Trade. However the Rattle of it at Coffee-houses, has taught him to Laugh at Spirits, and maintain that there are no Angels but those in Petticoats: And therefore he defies Heaven worse than Maximine; imagines Hell, only a Hot house to Flux in for a Clap, and calls the Devil, the Parsons Bugbear, and some­times the Civil Old Gentleman in Black. He denies there is any Essenti­al Difference betwixt Good and Evil, deems Conscience a thing only fit for Children, and ascribes all Honesty to simplicity, and an unpractisness in the Ways and Methods of the Town.

By these Extravagancies does he Signalize himself above Common Mor­tals, and counts all other Dunghil-Spirited Fops, that are not as madly Wild and Wicked as himself. Thus is Civility, Vertue, and Religion, booted out of the World, and Folly, and Atheisme exalted and promoted: For this is the Bell-Weather of Gallantry, whom our Younger Fry of Gentlemen ad­mire for a Hero. And by these Arts does a man now a days come to be counted a Person well bred, and fit for a generous Conversation, though in Truth 'tis only his Estate that Guids his Vanity, and his Purse that can Compound for his Follies; for of himself he is a painted Butter-flye: A Baboon, usurping Humane Shape; or (to use his own silly nastly Phrase) Mine A—se all over. And so I leave him behind me, till I meet him next time, either in the Kings-Bench-Walks, or an Hospital.