Nor are this vile and ignominious Race
Content true Honour from his Breast to chace,
Tuey shut his Eyes to beauteous Truth, and blind
With giddy Notions his unpractis’d Mind.
Soon as my easy and too generous Lord
With ample Feasts has crown’d the loaded Board,
Down strait the parasitic Blockheads sit,
To scatter their insipid, flatt’ring Wit:
This sordid Crew of Rascals, without Sense,
Praise every Bit they eat at his Expence.
The Viands some extol, and some the Wine,
And every Glass they drink, cry, Wondrous fine!
Here a stanch Sot takes up the foaming Bowl,
And swears his Lordship has a noble Soul.
There a pert Coxcomb of a different Stile,
A mere Sir Fopling, with affected Smile,
Does Beauty’s Queen, and Lady’s Love commend,
And vows there’s nothing like a Female Friend!
With luscious Words excites his Patron’s Fire,
And kindles into Lewdness young Desire.
Did not your Lordship a soft Damsel spy,
How you she ogled with a roguish Eye;
She tipt a wanton Wink, and smil’d, and sigh’d,
As if for you the tender Victim dy’d.
I know her Heart is to Compassion prone,
True Flesh and Blood, not made of Steel or Stone,
Can you withstand the Torrent of her Charms?
Who would not languish in her snowy Arms?
Mind not what dull and fallen Catos say,
Or canting Solons; you’re as wife as they.
Now your first Blood and springing Youth employ
In amorous Sports, and give a Loose to Joy.
Such are the Guests which you at Board maintain,
Such the raw Mind in Vice and Nonsense train,
The common Chat of th’ unreflecting Crew,
Who drop whatever’s Great, or Good, or True.

Quoted from: Charles Gildon: The Complete Art of Poetry. Vol. II. London: Charles Rivington, 1718.