AT ev’ry corner, and in ev’ry street,
Some gaudy, useless animal we meet,
Resembling men in nothing but their shape,
Their truest lineage is the friskful ape;
These are distinguished by the rank and name
Of Well-bread gentlemen, that notice claim,
But those who judge with reason on their side,
Conclude them Fops, and of their worth decide.

Observe the thing, its guady pinions spread,
Pride in its eye, with sense inverted head;
Vain son of folly, empty child of show,
Proud of the blank distinction of a beau.
Now nicely dress’d just from his barber loose,
The stalking semblance of a country goose;
Mark, how he walks, as if he trod on eggs;
Now views his waistcoat, then surveys his legs,
His dog-skin shoes, (for calf would hurt his toes)
His knees adorn’d with party-colour’d bows.
His monstrous buckles, just the Paris mode,
Their use unknown, except his feet to load;
Or when he walks with nicely picking tread,
Perhaps they serve for ballast to his head;
His scarlet coat, that ev’ry one may see,
Mark and observe, and know the fool is he,
With buttons garnish’d, sparkling in a row,
On sleeves and breasts, and skirts to make a show,
His waistcoat too, with tinsel shining o’er,
His cravat knotted in a bow before,
His empty head with powder loaded deep,
Wings to the fame, of formal cut and sweep,
With three-cock’d hat, and loop, and button bright
And open mouth, to shew his teeth are white;
With spread umbrella , not to guard from rain,
Nor shade the sun, but just complete the train,
For fun or rain he seldom dare invade,
One spoils his face, the other spoils his head, ,
Now to complete the figure nice and vain,
Send quick to Paris and procure a cane,
With head of ivory and gold inlaid,
A pinchbeck ferril by some artist made,
A spangled tassel to put round his wrist,
Green kid-skin gloves to guard his lilly fist:
This is the picture of a modern beau,
Which men of sense despise as well as know.

No doubt, good reader, you have seen display’d,
A soapy bubble that an atom weigh’d,
Blown from a pipe by some inventful boy,
To please his gazing breth’ren with the toy;
Just so the fop, with ev’ry gew-gaw rare,
Shines forth a bubble empty as the air.

Shew one a book, and prov’t has wit enough,
Why, Laird fir! sure you do not read such stuff?
The whole day long I never read a page,
I vow the present is a stupid age;
We’ll soon be Goths and Vandals without breeding,
What! quit the ton, and follow musty reading!
No, dam’ me, no! we lads of spirit live
In all the joys which art and fashion give.

Quoted from: Charles Varlo: Nature Display’d, a New Work: By Different Gentlemen, on Several Subjects. London, 1793.