You little scribbling beau, What demon made you write? Because to write you know As much as you can fight. For compliment so scurvy, I wish we had you here; We'd turn you topsy-turvy Into a mug of beer. You thought to make a farce on The man and place we chose; We're sure a single parson Is worth a hundred beaux. And you would make us vassals, Good Mr. Wig and Wings, To silver clocks and tassels -- You would, you thing of things! Because around your cane A ring of diamonds is set, And you in some by-lane Have gained a paltry grisette, Shall we of sense refined Your trifling nonsense bear, As noisy as the wind, As empty as the air? We hate your empty prattle, And vow and swear 'tis true, There's more in one child's rattle Than twenty fops like you. |