 | Poems on several occasions |  |
151
POLLY PEACHUM.
Of all the Toasts, that Britain boasts;
The Gim, the Gent, the Jolly,
The Brown, the Fair, the Debonair,
There's none cry'd up like Polly;
She's fir'd the Town, has quite cut down
The Opera of Rolli:
Go were you will, the Subject still,
Is pretty, pretty Polly.
The Gim, the Gent, the Jolly,
The Brown, the Fair, the Debonair,
There's none cry'd up like Polly;
She's fir'd the Town, has quite cut down
The Opera of Rolli:
Go were you will, the Subject still,
Is pretty, pretty Polly.
There's Madam Faustina, Catso!
And eke Madame Catsoni;
Likewise Signior Senesino,
Are tutti Abbandonni:
Ha, ha, ha, ha; Do, re, mi, fa,
Are now but Farce and Folly,
We're ravish'd all, with Toll, loll, loll,
And pretty! pretty Polly.
And eke Madame Catsoni;
Likewise Signior Senesino,
Are tutti Abbandonni:
152
Are now but Farce and Folly,
We're ravish'd all, with Toll, loll, loll,
And pretty! pretty Polly.
The Sons of Bayes, in Lyric lays,
Sound forth her Fame in Print O!
And, as we pass, in Frame and Glass,
We see her Mezzo-tint-O!
In Ivy-Lane, the City strain,
Is now no more on Dolly;
And all the Brights, at Man's and White's
Of nothing talk, but Polly.
Sound forth her Fame in Print O!
And, as we pass, in Frame and Glass,
We see her Mezzo-tint-O!
In Ivy-Lane, the City strain,
Is now no more on Dolly;
And all the Brights, at Man's and White's
Of nothing talk, but Polly.
Ah! Johnny Gay! thy lucky Play,
Has made the Criticks grin, a;
They cry 'tis flat, 'tis this, 'tis that,
But let them Laugh that win, a:
I swear Parbleu, 'tis naif and new,
Ill Nature is but Folly;
'Thas lent a stitch to rent of Rich,
And set up Madam Polly.
Has made the Criticks grin, a;
They cry 'tis flat, 'tis this, 'tis that,
But let them Laugh that win, a:
153
Ill Nature is but Folly;
'Thas lent a stitch to rent of Rich,
And set up Madam Polly.
Ah Tuneful Fair! Beware! Beware!
Nor Toy with Star and Garter;
Fine Cloaths may hide a foul Inside,
And you may catch a Tartar:
If powder'd Fop, blow up your Shop,
'Twill make you Melancholy;
Then left to rot, you'll die forgot,
Alas! Alas! poor Polly.
Nor Toy with Star and Garter;
Fine Cloaths may hide a foul Inside,
And you may catch a Tartar:
If powder'd Fop, blow up your Shop,
'Twill make you Melancholy;
Then left to rot, you'll die forgot,
Alas! Alas! poor Polly.
| Poems on several occasions | |