Which kindly found, on classic ground,

A paradise for prigs.

Assembled there, in talent rare,

Each knave salutes a brother,

And friendly yet, their wit they whet,

By practice on each other.

31 Young Pretender d. 1788. N.B. Race not extinct.

MY DANCING DAYS ARE OVER.
By the Gentleman in the White Waistcoat.

My dancing days are over now,

My legs are just like stumps;