Page:Boileau's Lutrin - a mock-heroic poem. In six canto's. Render'd into English verse. To which is prefix'd some account of Boileau's writings, and this translation. (IA boileauslutrinmo00boil).pdf/91

 Ah, Sir, said Girot smiling, Noblemen, Wits, Critics, Ladies, Poets nurse the Spleen; 'Tis a Gentile Disease and ever bred By Duns, or Affectation, or a Bed. Without Delay on fam'd Cephatic call, The Camisar shall cure you with his Sal.

The Master of the Choire, averse to Jest (With chiding Eyes his ill-tim'd Wit supprest) Leap'd furious from his Bed, and hasten'd to be drest. All his rich Vests and sumptuous Robes puts on, His Mohair Cassock and his Tabby Gown, His Violet Gloves; that very Rochet wore Which once the jealous Prelate's Fingers tore: An Ebon Stick he held, and on his Head, Snowy with Winter Age, a Sattin Bonnet laid; Quick-