Who sing sweetly at the parties, while the ladies laugh and chat;
And the man who play’d upon his chin is passé, I suppose
So try and find a gentleman who plays upon his nose.
Send half-a-dozen authors, for they help to fill a rout,
I fear I’ve worn the literary lionesses out!
Send something biographical, I think that fashion spreads,
But do not send a poet, till you find one with two heads.
The town has grown fastidious, we do not care a straw
For the whiskers of a bandit, or the tail of a bashaw!
And travellers are out of date, I mean to cut them soon,