The World

THE World, and its Works, which we grieve to forsake,
Are good or bad, just as we hit or mistake;
We write and we wrangle, make parties and plan,
As wife when we finish as when we began;
So let us laugh on, to be serious is sad,
A Man in his Senses wou'd now be thought mad.

Our Senses are bubbles in Vanities Fair,
And Men-children sillily make a shew there.
Each mounting his hobby-horse starts for the race,
Expects Admiration, but ends in Disgrace;
For so Dissipation our training has scheem'd,
The more we're look'd into, the less we're esteem'd.

Behold the Booth's Shew-cloth to draw the croud in,
The Rustics are wrinkl'd with open-mouth grin.
Each Muscle's in motion at Andrew's grimace,
Who tickles the throng 'till they push in for place;
Pray tell me what more is the World's present plan,
Than places to get in, and push who push can.

The shirtless untrowzer'd Philosophers Saws,
Once obsolete Reason pretended were Laws;
But Instinct turn'd Rebel, so Instinct was try'd,
The Passions were Jurors, NOT GUILTY! they cry'd.
Keep Sapience in schools, Folly now is the mode,
Truth's ways want repairing, I'll ride the new Road.

My Bottle's my Hunter, I mount with a Song,
And ti-tup about like a Sunday-hack throng.
Each raises his Portion of Dust for the day,
And he who's a Buck here will dust it away.
We'll laugh at the Dust which is made about Town,
And up with our Brushers, to brush the Dust down.