He draws his pen against your enemies:
For he declares, today, he merely strives
To maul the beaux—because they maul your wives.
Nor, sirs, to you whose sole religion’s drinking,
Whoring, roaring, without the pain of thinking,
He fears he’s made a fault you’ll ne’er forgive,
A crime beyond the hopes of a reprieve:
An honest rake forego the joys of life,
His whores and wine, t’ embrace a dull chaste wife!
Such out-of-fashion stuff! but then again,