From any place, to any size,
Hither, Phalæcian numbers, come!
Yon harlot jeers me; and denies
To bring your valued tablets home.
Can you such theft with patience bear?
Quick let us seek, and urge the fair!

Ask you, what fair?—That stage-bred queen,
Who walks with such affected pride!
Whose mouth, whene'er she laughs, is seen
Like Gallic beagle's, vast and wide.
Round her, Phalæcian numbers, throng;
And press, and urge her with your song!

“Restore the tablets, filthy jade!
“The tablets, filthy jade, restore!
“Dost thou not value what is said?
“O lump of dirt, o common whore!
“O any thing, if ought can be
“More sunk, more lost in infamy!”

Nor yet enough that taunting strain!
Since nothing else we can procure,
At least her cheeks with red let's stain,
Her iron cheeks ne'er stain'd before.
Again lift up your voice on high;
And louder, and still louder cry!

“Restore the tablets, filthy jade!
“The tablets, filthy jade, restore!”
Alas, we fail!——she will not heed——
Some other way we must implore.
Perhaps with this we shall persuade:
“Restore them, chaste, and virtuous maid!”