It is a sad Thing when a Lady of Quality, who has been a Toast in her Youth, and has seen the white-gloved Beaux, as Mr. _Pope_ calls them, bowing to her from the Pit, and kissing the scented Tips of their Gloves to her in the Ring; who has flaunted at _Vauxhall_, and shone in a Side-Box of the Opera-House in _Lincoln's Inn Fields_; has run down _Handel_, and run after _Bononcini_; has had her gay Water-Parties to _Jenny's Whim_, attended by Violins and Hautboys; and has brought, not only her own Company, but her own Strawberries and Cherries to our Bun-house, as if our own were not good enough; it is mortifying, I say, when such a Lady of Quality falls into the sear and yellow Autumn of Lif…
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