The Portrait; or, La, La, La

YE Bibbers who sip limpid Helicon's Rill,
Ye Lords of large Manors on Parnassus Hill,
Allow me, a Scribler, to try at Solfa,
And languish, in liquids, a Love-Song, la, la.

The Grubber in Kennels for old Iron seeks,
A Grubber for Thoughts scrubs the Streams of the Greeks;
With stumpy Quils raking each Classical Spa,
To pick up some Simile Fragments, la, la.

I wou'd, if I cou'd, with the Muses make free,
But which of those Sisters will listen to me?
Attraction I want, their attention to draw,
As I'm old, they'll object, that it must be, la, la.

Ye Ladies of Lapland who beesoms bestride,
Or, pair'd in Witch Whiskeys, aslant the Moon slide;
If Fiends, or if Friends, you have harness'd to draw,
Let me be Postilion, and trot on la, la.

Ground Ivy has crown'd me instead of the Bays,
Right Holland's inspires my rare Roundelays;
Miss Soap Suds I sing, by Poetical Law,
To Shifts more than to Shirts we are put, la, la, la.

Ye Dabblers in Distichs wherever ye snore,
On flock beds in cellars, or Garreteers soar,
Arouze from your blankets, assist me to draw
My Love's half, three-quarters, and whole-length, la, la.

Her Eye-brows are Cross-bows, the Bolts are her Looks,
With which my poor Senses are knock'd down like Rooks;
Her Cheeks—but who can a comparison draw?
Not Carmine,—no, no; she has none! 'tis la, la!

Her Lips! and such Lips, and such Kisses they gave,
That Prudence was gagg'd, and sent off as a slave;
They found in my Mind's Magna Charta a flaw;
Non-suited my Judgement, and cast me, LA, LA!

Her Neck has great Grace, after Meat and before;
Her Legs, but, alas! I must mention no more,
For Decency, lately, has kept me in awe,
So to say any more wou'd be, but paw, paw; paw.