Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys, and sights—
This dear busy place, where there’s nothing transacting
But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?
Imprimis, the opera—mercy, my ears!
Brother Bobby’s remark, t’other night, was a true one;—
“This must be the music,” said he, “of the spears,
For I’m curst if each note of it doesn’t run through one!”
Pa says (and you know, love, his Book’s to make out,
’Twas the Jacobins brought ev’ry mischief about)
That this passion for roaring has come in of late,