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NONE SO PRETTY.
THIS life is like a country dance,
The world a spacious hall room,
In which so many take a prance,
They scarcely find for all room;
Fiddlers and pipers in a row,
See how the ranks are closing,
Each strives his neighbour’s faults to shew,
While he’s his own exposing.
Pray, Ma'am, what dance have you call’d?
Matrimony, Ma’am. The figure is extremely easy,
you turn single, run away with your partner,
head up the middle, back to back, part and change partners.
CHORUS
Thus busied in the fond turmoil,
They time by folly measure,
Turn all their pleasure into toil,
And fancy toil a pleasure.
Some in full dance with ardour burn,
And swim, and glide, and wander,
While others waiting for their turn,
Sneer, smile, and deal out slander;
And so the Count must run away!
Why really I'm afraid so;
His (illegible text) has ruin’d him at play,
Poor man, I always said so.
O no doubt about it, kept by a Physician before
she came to the Count, duel with a young apothecary; syrenges loaded with analeptic pills. ’Tis
your turn to begin, Sir. Sir, I beg your pardon.
Chor. Thus busied in the fond turmoil, etc,
