Yet you, like him, have neither heat nor soul;
So may your hats your foretops never press,
Untouched your ribbons, sacred be your dress;
So may you slowly to old age advance,
And have the excuse of youth for ignorance;
So may fop-corner full of noise remain,
And drive far off the dull, attentive train;
So may your midnight scourings happy prove,
And morning batteries force your way to love;
So may not France your warlike hands recal,