It begins:
Quoth the Swains who got in at the late Masquerade
And never before left their flocks or their shade
What people are here who with splendor amaze
Or but with their antick variety please
Who talk to each other in voices unknown
And their faces are worse than their Vizors when shown ...
" . . . Phillis they said in her holiday cloaths
With a pink in her hat in her bosom a rose
Nor Silvia who with the best cream in her bowl
Set a glass on her forehead and breeded her role
Or light hearted Cloe who laugh't ere she spoke . . .