The lover, à la Vilikin comes next,
And who, like Vilikin, trolls out a ballad
As neatly garnished as a lobster salad;
“Made to his mistress’ eyebrow;” to some air,
Which howsome’er she says she cannot bear.
Sometimes this age betokens noisy gent
Not coming home till midnight is far spent
Who cannot from the knockers quite abstain,
Of which the quiet inmates will complain.
Sometimes these fast young men after the play,