Lace on his shirt, and money at command,
Regardless of the skulking bailiff’s sway,
That hid in some dark court expects his evening prey.
“The porter mug fill high,
Baked curls and locks prepare;
Reft of our heads, they yet by wigs may live!
Close by the greasy chair
Fell thirst and famine lie,
No more to art will beauteous nature give.
Heard ye the gang of Fielding say,