The girls of virtue when he views,
Dead to all converse but the stews,
Silent as death, he's nought to say
But sheepish steals himself away.
This is a buck to life display'd,
A character to charm each maid.
Now, prithee, friend, a choice to make,
Wouldst choose the buck before the rake?
The buck, as brutal as the name,
Invenoms every charmer's fame;
And though he never touch'd her hand
Protests he had her at command.
The rake in gratitude for pleasure
Keeps reputation dear as treasure.

[After these asterisks follows, without title.] But Hudibrastics may be found To tire ye with repeated sound; So, changing for a Shandeyan stile, I ask your favour and your smile.

ODE.

Recitative.
In his wooden palace jumping,
Tearing, sweating, bawling, thumping,

Repent, repent, repent,
The mighty Whitfield cries,

Oblique light'ning in his eyes, Or die and be damn'd! all around The long-ear'd rabble grunt in dismal sound, Repent, repent, repent,

Each concave mouth replies." The comet of gospel, the lantern of light,

Is rising and shining
Like candles at night.

He shakes his ears,
He jumps, he stares;

Hark, he's whining,
The short-hand saints prepare to write,
And high they mount their ears.

Air.
Now the devil take ye all,
Saints or no saints, all in a lump;

Here must I labour and bawl, And thump, and thump, and thump;

And never a souse to be got,
Unless_I swear by jingo,

A greater profit's made

I'll forswear my trade,
My gown and market lingo,
And leave ye all to pot.

Recitative.
Now he raves like brindled.cat,

Now 'tis thunder,

Rowling,
Growling,

Rumbling,

Grumbling,
Noise and nonsense, jest and blunder.

Now he chats of this and that,
No inore the soul jobber,

No more the sly robber.
He's now an old woman who talks to her cat.

Again he starts, he beats his breast,
He rolls his eyes, erects his chest ;

Hark! hark! the sound begins, 'Tis a bargain and sale for remission of sins.

Air.
Say, beloved congregation,

In the hour of tribulation,
Did the power of man affray me?

Say ye wives, and say ye daughters,

Han't I staunch'd your running waters? I have labour'd-pay me-pay me!

I have given absolution,

Dont withhold your contribution; Men and angels should obey me

Give but freely, you've remission

For all sins without condition;
You're my debtors, pay mę, pay me!

Recitative.
Again he's lost, again he chatters
Of lace and bobbin and such matters.

A thickening vapor swells-
Of Adam's fall he tells,

Dark as twice ten thousand hells

Is the gibberish which he spatters. Now a most dismal elegy he sings,

Groans, doleful groans are heard about;

The Issacharian rout
Swell the sharp howl, and loud the sorrow rings.
He sung a modern buck whose end

Was blinded prejudice and zeal.
In life to every vice a friend,

Unfix'd as fortune on her wheel.
He lived a buck, he died a fool,

So let him to oblivion fall,

Who thought a wretched body all,
Untaught in nature's or the passion's school.

Now he takes another theme,
Thus he tells his waking dream.

Air.
After fasting and praying and grunting and weeping,
My guardian angel beheld me fast sleeping;
And instantly capering into my brain,
Relieved me from prison of bodily chain.
The soul can be every thing as you all know,
And mine was transform'd to the shape of a crow.
(The preacher or metre has surely mistook,
For all must confess that a parson's a rook.)
Having wings, as I think I inform'd ye before,
I shot through a cavern and knock'd at hell's door.

Out comes Mr. Porter Devil,
And, I'll assure ye, very civil.

“Dear sir," quoth he, “pray step within,

The company is drinking tea; We have a stranger just come in,

A brother from the triple tree.” Well, in I walkd, and what d'ye think? Instead of sulphur, fire and stink,

'Twas like a masquerade,

All grandeur, all parade.
Here stood an amphitheatre,
There stood the small Haymarket-house,

With devil actors very clever,
Who without blacking did Othello.

And truly a huge horned fellow
Told me, he hoped I would endeavour

To learn a part, and get a souse,
For pleasure was the business there.

A lawyer ask'd me for a fee,

To plead my right to drinking tea ; I begg'd his pardon, to my thinking

I'd rather have a cheering cup.
For tea was but insipid drinking,
And brandy rais'd the spirits up.

So having seen a place in hell,
I straight awoke, and found all well.

Recitative.

Now again his cornets sounding,
Sense and harmony confounding,