Classic Poem

If only novelty can give delight ,
I fear, we've lost that favourite plea to night:
What meant the Poet , when he hop'd success ,
From making man and master change their dress?
'Tis now so long, since this was thought a wonder ,
That none but men of taste know 'em asunder.
Fam'd, for associate airs , the rivals quarrel ,
Which shall trip tightest in its next apparel .
Improving , each by each, so fast, that neither
Excells — but all are charm'd, alike, with either .

Well! 'tis an humble age, when pride and greatness ,
Give up ambition , for long sticks and straitness:
When conscious, none were gentry by creation,
Peers drive out pomp , and level all the nation;
And crop-ear'd knights instruct the herald prater,
Tom and Sir Thomas , are the same , by nature.
Joy to the pulpits — now, there needs no railing ,
At vanities o'er head or foot , prevailing:
Declaiming saints would all their satire lose,
Who once preach'd laces , from the lady's shoes .
'Twould make the holiest , of those good men, stare ,
To see my Lady buckled, like her mare ,
And, free from mincing modesty , walk strong,
Jut frank, and elbow nervously long.

As to the Play I'd praise it, if I could;
But e'en the title proves, it can't be good:
A Cure for Jealousy! — 'tis useless quite,
'Till charms grow strong , our passion to excite:
But guardian fashion , now, so models dress ;
It cools desire and keeps down love's excess .