Classic Poem

The poet's pen can, like a conjurer's wand,
Or kill, or raise his heroine at command:
And I shall, spirit-like, before I sink,
Not courteously enquire, but tell you what you think.
From top to bottom, I shall make you stare,
By hitting all your judgements to a hair.

And first with you above I shall begin —
Good-natured souls, they're ready all to grin.
Though twelve-pence seat you there, so near the ceiling,
The folks below can't boast a better feeling.
No high-bred prudery in your region lurks,
You boldly laugh and cry as nature works.

Says John to Tom (ay — there they sit together,
As honest Britons as e'er trod on leather),
" 'Tween you and I, my friend, 'tis very vild ,
That old Vergeenus should have stuck his child:
I would have hanged him for 't, had I been ruler,
And ducked that Apus too, by way of cooler. "

Some maiden dames, who hold the middle floor,
And fly from naughty man at forty-four,
With turned-up eyes applaud Virginia's scape,
And vow they'd do the same to shun a rape;
So very chaste, they live in constant fears,
And apprehension strengthens with their years.

Ye bucks, who from the pit your terrors send,
Yet love distressed damsels to befriend,
You think this tragic joke too far was carried,
And wish, to set all right, the maid had married.
You'd rather see (if so the fates had willed)
Ten wives be kind, than one poor virgin killed.

May I approach unto the boxes, pray,
And there search out a judgement on the play?
In vain, alas, I should attempt to find it!
Fine ladies see a play, but never mind it.
'Tis vulgar to be moved by acted passion,
Or form opinions, till they're fixed by fashion.

Our author hopes this fickle goddess, Mode,
With us will make, at least, nine days' abode;
To present pleasure he contracts his view,
And leaves his future fame to time and you.