To make the rustic gentry prate,—
Such joys as fill young ladies’ heads,
Who judge from books of masquerades.
Then will I to St. Stephen’s stray,
If aught be moved by Castlereagh,
Or matchless Canning mean to roll,
His thunders o’er the subject soul.
And sometimes, to divert my cares,
Give me some flirt, with joyous airs,
Married a girl, a widow now,