Charge to the C⸺y.

Then practice, ye drivelling drones, as you’ve preach’d, Pray what’s it to you—how a dancer is breech’d? On the fate of the Pope, pause, and awfully think, And your mitres will totter, your lawn-sleeves will shrink; For on beauty and symmetry fancy will feast, To vigour of body they give mental zest, Let Parisot’s petticoats beauties disclose, Ne’er take up such ticklish subjects as those.