When beauty's gone, and Chloe's struck with years,
Eyes she can couch, or she can syringe ears.
Of Graduates I dislike the learned rout,
And chuse a female Doctor for the gout.
Thus would I live, with no dull pedants curs'd,
Sure, of all blockheads, Scholars are the worst.
Back to your Universitys, ye fools,
And dangle Arguments on strings in schools:
Those schools which Universitys they call,
'Twere well for England were there none at all.