Some wonderful folks make a wonderful rout, One Side says the Times are so good they are glad; The Times, says the other side, ne'er were so bad: No Wonder if this Side or that Side is mad. For the Times, I some Patriot Changes propose,That our Taxes be less, and we wear plainer cloaths; And that ev'ry wearer may pay what he owes. Imprimis, reflect on the Taxes on Wheels, To be sure we must own 'tis cursed provoking, For my Grandfather said, and his name's rever'd, She fled without leaving behind her directions, 'Twas in vain she observ'd to oppose such connexions, As Turtle-feasts, Cuckoldoms, Cards, and Elections. You may think me severe, but indeed you think wrong, I promis'd a Wonder at first in my Song, THE PARADE. L TUNE. "While others strive by pompous Phrase." ET those attend who seek the choice, The Health of Peace abuse. In Party's tumult, Pomp's fatigue, Life's social scenes they lose. The Danglers at a Birth-night's glare, In courtly Sunbeams play. The Nobles smile to see the train, To garnish Grandeur's day. Daughters of Dignity and Grace, Ye high-bred Dames of haughty Race, Fit for Contentment's dome? Sisters of Fashion laugh and love, Yet how are things at Home? Your stucco'd Ceilings, emboss'd Plate, Can Down, or fring'd Embroidery's art, Or strengthen Vigour's stores? Perhaps, 'midst all the waste of Pride, Or sottish Husband snores. While we, as marry'd folks shou'd do, We find Fruition's feast at home; Give Cæsar Cæsar's due. May Friendship fill the manly breast, And each to each be true. THE FRIGHT. TUNE. "Ah! Chloe! transported, I cry'd.” NE Ev'ning alone in the Grove, She wonder'd at what they call Love, "Yet neither want manner nor means; "Alas! must I live to my Loss, "And wither away in my Teens ?" Young Rhodophil ran up the slope, She saw him advance to her seat, Desire gave grace to his tongue, Then bow'd down his Lips to her Cheek. TIME KILLERS. TUNE. "How foolish weak Women believe." OW weak is the Wisdom of Man ? How How foolish the fancy of Taste? Admitting that Life's but a Span, That Span must we wantonly waste ? About we dissatisfy'd move, And ramble from climate to clime; Yet neither enjoy nor improve, But only, alas! to kill Time. Ye Husbands, rash Dupes to Excess, A your Wives. prey to foul Prostitute's lure, O! think what Affection must feel, What delicate Wives may endure? The Gun-loaded 'Squire will toil The innocent Tenants of Air. At Toilets how Beauties appear, Like Fowlers they arm and take aim; With horrid Time what cou'd they do? When fine Women do as they please, They hear not the Nursery's din; They fly such dull Scenes to cut in. |