It's very odd, and even so, and why I can't discover,
That I should wait, at Cupid's gate, the knocking of a lover;
There's old Miss Young, with wily tongue, has tickled Captain Sly;
The wrinkled frump will bear his stump, to get a Leg-a-cy.
There's little Brown, I set him down for sure among the shymen,
He is, altho' so short a beau, drawn in the knot of _High-men_.
And Corp'ral Scout, to buy him out, the Widow does not falter,
It hurts her pride that he should ride so long without a _haltar_:
But pert Miss Green, just turn'd sixteen, she need not use such speed,
To make a hash with Count Moustache—'tis Baby-work indeed.