Every Man His Mode

Sure every man in his way is a prig, From the cut of his coat, or the tie of his wig, And most in some partial opinion is bless'd, For every man thinks his own is the best.

The Coachman, tho' plain, is an absolute fop, With his shoulders well squar'd and his head like a mop, Or his broad silver buttons, and tripple-cap'd coat, And all the slang speeches of Newgate by rote,

The Bishop and Dean have a snug kind of cut, With a solemn, a sage, and monastical strut, The full-puffed sleeve and the well-starched band, His wristbands like snow and a lilly-white hand.

The Judge is a fop, tho' he looks rather droll, With his scarlet and fur, and his head like an owl; And the Sergeant, as if through the Mohawks he'd bled, Or had lately been scalp'd, by the patch on his head.

The Quaker's a very queer kind of a quiz, His back so erect, and so prim in his phiz, In superfine cloth, tho' his coat be but plain, Yet the Quaker's a coxcomb, a coxcomb in grain.

The Player's a prigster of every kind, Of every fashion, of every mind, Sometimes like a beggar, sometimes like a king, A tragical, comical, whimsical thing.

Since men about fashion make such a great pother, And every prig will find fault with his brother, Let each be indulg'd in his different way, For Charmen can tell 'tis the whim of a day.