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[Music ]
I Hate a Fop that at his Glass
Stands prinking half the Day,
With a sallow frowzy olive colour'd Face,
And a powder'd Peruke hanging to his Wast,
Who with ogling imagines to possess,
And to shew his Shape does cringe and scrape,
But nothing has to say;
Or if the Courtship's fine,
He'll only cant and whine,
And in confounded Poetry,
He'll Goblins make divine;
I love the bold and brave,
I hate the fawning Slave,
That quakes and crys,
And sighs and lyes,
Yet wants the Skill,
With Sence to tell,
What 'tis he longs to have.
