Song LXII. Not as It Shou'd Be

A Coxcomb once said He had Bet's Maidenhead, But 'twas false, as I told Mr. Wou'd-be. His Doctor declar'd, Impotency debarr'd, The Fribble was not as he shou'd be.

As Beauty is us'd, So Britannia's abus'd, How many loud Coffee-house praters Will boast of the weight Which they have in the State, And wou'd be the Nation's Dictators.

Such Creatures pretend They can England befriend, So attact or distract all about them; That, pon onner, they know How, when, what, and also, And the Ministry can't do without them.

When Candidates bow, Patriotic they vow To honour, esteem, and adore us; But chose, they change soon, They are taught the Court Tune, And chant in Majority's Chorus.

Reproach, if you please, May impertinent teaze, Rememb'rance attempt to awaken; But th' answer is this, I thought things amiss, I really, my friend, was mistaken.

His Market is made, We all live by Trade, So buy or sell, Sirs—chuse you whether; Rich and Poor 'tis the same, Chang-alley's the game, A job! a sad job altogether!

Our Animal Stuff Is not made of Bomb Proof, When Temptation's Artillery assails; As the Batt'ries begin, We're betray'd from within, The Flesh over Spirit prevails.

Corruption!—that's hard— But, from birth to church-yard, What are we? but rotting along: Folly moulders our Clay, Each Vice has its Day, But—good-night—for I've done with my Song.