Presto! be gone! with t'other hop
He's powdering in a barber's shop;
Now at the antichamber thrusting
His nose to get the circle just in,
And d—ns his blood, that in the rear
He sees one single tory there:
Then, woe be to my lord lieutenant,
Again he'll tell him, and again on't.
GRAVE dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pass,
That you, who know musick no more than an ass;
That you, who so lately were writing of Drapiers,
Should lend your cathedral to players and scrapers?
To act such an opera once in a year,
So offensive to every true protestant ear,
With trumpets, and fiddles, and organs, and singing,
Will sure the pretender and popery bring in.
No protestant prelate, his lordship or grace,
Durst there show his right or most reverend face:
How would it pollute their crosiers and rochets!
To listen to minims, and quavers, and crotchets.
[The rest is wanting.]
