Classic Poem

Let poets scrawl satirick rhymes,
And sketch the follies of the times,
With much caricaturing;
But I, a bon-ton bard , declare
A set of slanderers they are,
E'en past a Job's enduring.

Let crabbed cynicks snarl away,
And pious parsons preach and pray
Against the vices reigning;
That mankind are so wicked grown,
Morality is scarcely known,
And true religion waning.

Societies, who vice suppress,
May make a rumpus; ne'ertheless,
Our's is the best of ages;
Such hum-drum folks our fathers were,
They could no more with us compare,
Than Hottentots with sages .

It puts the poet in a pet
To think of THEM , a vulgar set;
But WE , thank G — d, are QUALITY !
For we have found this eighteenth century
What ne'er was known before, I'll venture ye,
Religion's no reality!

Tom Paine, and Godwin, both can tell
That there is no such thing as hell!
A doctrine mighty pleasant;
Your old-wives tales of a hereafter
Are things for ridicule and laughter,
While we enjoy the present .

We've nought to do, but frisk about,
At midnight ball, and Sunday rout,

Besides exhibiting your parts,
You're sure to win the ladies' hearts
By dint of dissipation;
Since " every woman is a rake, "
A fool may know what steps to take
To gain her approbation.

By practising these famous rules,
You'll gain from wicked men and fools
A world of admiration;
And, as we know from good authority,
Such folks compose a clear majority,
There needs no hesitation.