A chaise is waiting at the door, in which he's doom'd to go,
He knows and feels its very wheels will bear him to his woe;
The thing he rides in he derides, and there, for joy, would dance
If master, chaise, and all, were safe at Père la Chaise, in France!
To force a young and chubby boy to school, away from home,
'S like taking a young Regulus to Carthage, back from Rome:
Upon his bed, more like a board, he cries and lies awake,
His fruit is fruitless, and he feels he doesn't need his cake!
His bat is chang'd into a bawl, the rod'll never stop,
It's always whipping bottom, now, instead of whipping top: