I
Oh! where will be the culls of the bing [1]
A hundred stretches hence? [2]
The bene morts who sweetly sing, [3]
A hundred stretches hence?
The autum-cacklers, autum-coves, [4]
The jolly blade who wildly roves; [5]
And where the buffer, bruiser, blowen, [6]
And all the cops, and beaks so knowin, [7]
A hundred stretches hence?