And I think I should soon be the ton in the Guards.
As to height, I confess with regret I’m not tall,
But Lord A—c—m and I might parade in the Mall.
And a bag from Miss Brace,[3] with a good handsome wig,
Might, I think, pretty soon put on foot an intrigue.
What might not be done with my air, and my shape,
At a Court where ’tis the fashion to look like an ape?
What duels! what battles! what murders! what slaughters!
What tears would be shed both by mothers and daughters!
What groups in the anguish of cutting a horn,