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 Sleeve-linings, pockets, silk and twist; And all the long expensive list With which their uncouth bills abound, Though rarely in their garments found. By these and other arts in trade, Had soon a pretty fortune made. And did what few hath ever done, Left thirty thousand to his son.
 * The son, a gay young swaggering blade,

Abhor'd the very name of trade; And left reflection should be thrown On him, resolved to leave the town, And travel where he was not known. In gilded coach and liveries gay. To Oxford first he took his way; There beaux and belie* his taste admire, His equipage and rich attire, Cut nothing was so much ador’d As his fine silver-hilted sword; Though short and small, 'twas vastly neat, The tight was deem’d a perfect treat; Beau Banter begg’d to have a look, But when the sword in hand he took, He swore by Gad it was and odd thing. And look'd much like a. His pride was hurt by this expression, Thinking they knew his fire’s profession; Sheathin' his sword he sneakt away, And drove for Gloster the same day. There soon he found new cause for grief, For dining on some fine roast beef, One asked which he did prefer, Some cabbage or a cucumber.