THE
B⸺’s BUGBEAR.
A proud pamper’d P⸺e, to hypocrites dear,
With an income, from tythes, of twelve thousand a year,
Hath furnish’d the nation with novel alarms,
’Bout the legs of the French, for he fears not their arms;
He tells us he’s heard, tho’ he’s not seen the truth,
That the minds of our modest ingenuous youth
Are debauch’d by French dancers, who riot young blood
With the sight of that niche, wherein B⸺s have stood.
But how came a B⸺p, ’bove all men, to know