Classic Poem

Nosegays I cry, and, though little you pay,
They're such as you cannot get every day.
Who'll buy? who'll buy?—'tis nosegays I cry.
Who'll buy? who'll buy?—'tis nosegays I cry.

Each mincing, ambling, lisping blade,
Who smiles, and talks of blisses
He never felt, is here portray'd
In form of a narcissus.
Nosegays I cry, &c.

Statesmen, like Indians, who adore
The sun, by courting power,
Cannot be shewn their likeness more
Than in th' humble sun-flower.
Nosegays I cry, &c.

Poets I've here in sprigs of bays,
Devils in the bush are friars;
Nettles are critics, who damn plays,
And satirists are briars.
Nosegays I cry, &c.