I'l Terzo

At London, Song, Thy Russet, and Thy Freeze,
Will seem, I fear, but course;
Jesu, they'll cry, or worse,
See! the dull fleghm of Solitude and Trees.
Thus will the Fops treat Thee, those Wits by Rote;
Yet one Thou 'lt know, e're long,
Who will own Thee, Song, and see Thy Beauties through Thy Coat.