Who by flatt'ry your favour would earn,
Pelting praise at your head, as at monkeys
Tars throw stones—to get nuts in return.
My Lord Mayor may beplaster his liveries
With velvet and gingerbread gold;
Though all, what he'd perhaps call "diskiveries,"
Are bursting from every fold:
He may perch up a Justice from Astley's
Atop of a property car,
Not less fit for the day, or less ghastly's