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A SONG. |
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No courtiers now their friends deceive With promises of favor ;
For what they made 'em once believe, Is done and done for ever.
•- Our nobles—Heaven defend us all! I'll nothing say about 'em; For they are great and I'm but small, So muse, jog on without 'em.
Our gentry are a virtuous race, Despising earthly treasures;
Fond of true honor's noble chase, And quite averse to pleasures.
The ladies dress so plain indeed, You'd think 'em Quakers all,
Witness the wool packs on their heads, So comely and so small.
No tradesman now forsakes his shop,
For politics or news ; Or takes his dealer at a hop,
Through interested views. |
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