To Dr. Birbeck Hill
Why, no Sir! If a barren rascal cries,
That he is most in love with pleasing woe,
’Tis plain, Sir! what to think of him: We know
The dog lies; and the dog, too, knows he lies.
Sir! if he’s happy, he will dry his eyes,
And stroll at Vauxhall for an hour or so:
If he’s unhappy, it were best he go
Hang himself straight, nor pester us with sighs.
Enough, Sir! Let us have no more of it:
Your friend is little better than a Whig.
But you and I, Sir, who are men of wit,
Laugh at the follies of a canting prig.
Let those who will, Sir! to such whims submit:
No, Sir! we’ll to the Mitre: Frank! my wig.