But dulness well becomes the sable garment;
I warrant that ne'er spoiled a priest's preferment;
}
Wit's not his business, and as wit now goes, }
Sirs, 'tis not so much yours as you suppose, }
For you like nothing now but nauseous beaux. }
}
You laugh not, gallants, as by proof appears, }
At what his beauship says, but what he wears; }
So 'tis your eyes are tickled, not your ears. }