Song of Basset

Let equipage and dress despair, Since Basset is come in, For nothing can oblige the fair Like Money and Morine.

Is any countess in distress, She flies not to the beau, 'Tis only Cony can redress Her grief with a Rouleau.

By this bewitching game betray'd, Poor Love is bought and sold; And that which should be a free trade Is now ingross'd by gold.

Ev'n sense is brought into disgrace, Where company is met; Or silent stands, or leaves the place, While all the talk 's Basset.

Why, ladies, will you stake your hearts, Where a plain cheat is found? You first are rook'd out of those darts That gave yourselves the wound.

The time, which should be kindly lent To plays and witty men, In waiting for a Knave is spent, Or wishing for a Ten.

Stand in defence of your own charms, Throw down this favourite, That threatens with his dazzling arms Your beauty and your wit.

What pity 'tis, those conquering eyes, Which all the world subdue, Should, while the lover gazing dies, Be only on Alpue.