Page:Tibby Fowler, or, The lass with the siller bridle.pdf/7

 (7)           With powder and lace, And effeminate face, The gay fop behold ſtrutting along, Juſt arriv'd from his travels, At nothing he levels, But juſt at a dance and a ſong.

The gentle cocquet, She's all in a fret, In the morn if her toilet be wrong; The whole day ſhe will paſs, To conſult her dear glaſs, And at night die away with a ſong. The ſurly old prude, She will ſay you are rude, For the bleſs tho' ſhe ſecretly long; But take her aſide, You may manage her pride, And her virtue bring down to a ſong.

The courtier he ſmiles, As the time he beguiles And feeds you with promiſes long: He ſqueezes your hand, And calls you his friend, Tho' he means nothing more than a ſong.

Then let us be jolly, Drive hence melancholy, Since we are brave fellows among, Taſte life as it paſſes, And fill up our glaſſes, And each honeſt blade ſing a ſong.