Classic Poem

To one fair Lady out of Court,
And two fair Ladies in,
We think the Turk and Pope a Sport,
And Wit and Love no Sin;
Come, these soft Lines, with nothing stiff in
To Bellenden, Lepell, and Griffin.
With a fa, la, la.

What passes in the dark third Row,
And what behind the Scene,
Couches and cripled Chairs I know,
And Garrets hung with Green;
I know the Swing of sinful Hack,
Where many Damsels cry Alack.
With a fa, la, la.

Then why to Court should I repair,
Where's such ado with Townshend,
To hear each Mortal stamp and swear,
And every speech with Zoons end;
To hear 'em rail at honest Sunderland,
And rashly blame the Realm of Blunderland.
With a fa, la, la.

Alas! like Schutz, I cannot pun,
Like Grafton court the Germans;
Tell Pickenbourg how Slim she's grown,
Like Meadowes run to Sermons;
To Court ambitious Men may roam,
But I and Marlbro' stay at Home.
With a fa, la, la.

In Truth, by what I can discern,
Of Courtiers 'twixt you Three,
Some Wit you have, and more may learn
From Court, than Gay or Me:
Perhaps, in Time, you'll leave high Diet,
To sup with us on Milk and Quiet.
With a fa, la, la.

At Leicester-Fields, a House full high,
With door all painted green,
Where Ribbons wave upon the Tye,
(A Milliner I mean);
There may you meet us Three to Three,
For Gay can well make Two of Me.
With a fa, la, la.

But shou'd you catch the Prudish Itch,
And each become a Coward,
Bring sometimes with you Lady Rich,
And sometimes Mistress Howard;
For Virgins to keep Chaste, must go
Abroad with such as are not so.
With a fa, la, la.

And thus, fair Maids, my Ballad ends;
God send the King safe Landing;
And make all honest Ladies friends
To Armies that are Standing;
Preserve the Limits of these Nations,
And take off Ladies Limitations.
With a fa, la, la.