Classic Poem

When infants are born, by experience we find,
 With ideas so few they're supply'd,
That Locke has most justly resembled their mind,
 To a cabinet empty and void.

A Beau , and a child, may in this be compar'd,
 For his mind would be quite a charte blanche,
If you strive (tho' I own that the labour is hard)
 What's trifling and vain to retrench.

First a set of shrew'd hints, innuendos, and slanders,
 And lyes that he tells with pert face:
A heap of stale phrases, and double entendres,
 Without sense to apply them in place:

Some new-fashion'd compliments ready at hand,
 Which he learns, like a parrot, by rote;
To bully and bluster, with oaths at command,
 “Blood, madam, I'll cut the rogue's throat!”

Four jokes and a half from Joe Millar purloin'd,
 Six lines out of Hudibras more;
Compose, if you nicely examine his mind,
 Of humour and wit his full store.

His learning just serves him to read a new song,
 Or chatter a sentence of French;
And what tho' 'em both he pronounces quite wrong?
 'Tis enough for his barber and wench

Of Venus, and Cupid, and arrows, and darts,
 His tongue never ceasing runs on;
“Those eyes, my sweet angel, like swords pierce our hearts,
 Oh, close them—or else I'm undone!”

Add to these a few scraps of our modern romances,
 From Grandison, Ramble , or Briggs ;
Three dozen at least of new country dances,
 With minuets, louvres, and gigs.

Oh yes! I give notice, if any one know
 More virtues than these we have reckon'd;
Let him send us the name, and abode of his Beau ,
 To add in edition the second.

Thus accomplished a captain, a knight, or a 'squire,
 How great are his merit, and charms?
See ladies in troops his perfections admire,
 And with extasy spring to his arms!—