Pray what’s it to you—how a dancer is breech’d?
On the fate of the Pope, pause, and awfully think,
And your mitres will totter, your lawn-sleeves will shrink;
For on beauty and symmetry fancy will feast,
To vigour of body they give mental zest,
Let Parisot’s petticoats beauties disclose,
Ne’er take up such ticklish subjects as those.
BANKING.
Come, I’m prompt for a song on demand,