His squibs are only levelled at your pockets;
And if his crackers light among your pelf,
You are blown up; if not, then he's blown up himself.
By this time, I'm something recovered of my flustered madness;
And now, a word or two in sober sadness.
Ours is a common play; and you pay down
A common harlot's price—just half a crown.
}
You'll say, I play the pimp, on my friend's score; }
But since 'tis for a friend your gibes give o'er, }