The Echo, Song CXLIII

How brim full of nothing's the life of a beau, They've nothing to think of, for nothing they do, And nothing to talk of, for nothing they know, Such, such is the life of a beau, Such, &c.

For nothing they rise but to draw the fresh air, Spend the morning in nothing but curling their hair; And do nothing all day but sigh, saunter and stare, Such, such is the life of a beau, Such, &c.

For nothing at night to the play-house they crowd, To mind nothing done there they are always too proud, But to bow and to grin, and to say nothing loud, Such, such is the life of a beau, Such, &c.

For nothing they run to assembly and ball, For nothing at cards a fair partner they call; For they still must be hasted who're nothing at all, Such, such is the life of a beau, Such, &c.

For nothing on Sunday's at church they appear, They've nothing to hope for and nothing to fear, They can be nothing no where, who nothing are here; Such, such is the life of a beau, Such, &c.