I.
At the play among loungers and doxies you’re cramm’d,
To hear wretched stuff that has just not been damn’d;
Take cold with your back ’gainst an open door box,
Get a crick in the neck, and a c— full of p—x!
II.
Sublime your sensations, arise, when you hear
The codless Italian, with pipe shrill and clear;
But we in the country, whom cocknies call clods,
All glory in raising our pipes with our—c—ds.
III.
At night, half seas over, returning from club,
You run foul of a nightman, and his nose-gay tub;
And a jordan perhaps, on your noddle may split,
So before you get home, you’re bepiss’d or be-s—t!
IV.
In the country to see us would do your hearts good,
Such pieces we push at, of pure flesh and blood;
Take a flyer in town, ’tis a hot butter’d bun,
And you’re certain to pay thro’ your nose for the fun.
V.
At the playhouse or opera when you approach,
How sweet to be stuck in a stinking hack-coach;
And when you alight, still your patience to try,
A strange hand’s in your pocket, a link’s in your eye.