Some hopeful youths there are, of callow wit,
Who one day may be men, if heaven think fit;
Sound may serve such, ere they to sense are grown,
Like leading-strings, till they can walk alone.--
But yet, to keep our friends in countenance, know,
The wise Italians first invented show;
Thence into France the noble pageant past:
'Tis England's credit to be cozened last.
Freedom and zeal have choused you o'er and o'er; }
Pray give us leave to bubble you once more; }
You never were so cheaply fooled before: }
We bring you change, to humour your disease;
Change for the worse has ever used to please:
Then, 'tis the mode of France; without whose rules,
None must presume to set up here for fools.
In France, the oldest man is always young,
Sees operas daily, learns the tunes so long,
Till foot, hand, head, keep time with every song:
Each sings his part, echoing from pit and box,
With his hoarse voice, half harmony, half pox[1].
_Le plus grand roi du monde_ is always ringing,
They show themselves good subjects by their singing:
On that condition, set up every throat;
You whigs may sing, for you have changed your note.
Cits and citesses, raise a joyful strain,
'Tis a good omen to begin a reign;
Voices may help your charter to restoring,
And get by singing, what you lost by roaring.
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