When first Sir Bob, that rusty Knight,
Appear'd upon the Stage,
All star'd at so Grotesque a Sight,
Nor seen since Alfred's Age.

Some thought him done on Pastboard, Sir,
And some in Canvas woven;
None e'er imagin'd he could stir,
But when the Scenes were moven.

All wonder'd, in the Toupee Rows
To see so odd a Figure,
Amidst the limber, damag'd, Beaus,
So' inelegant a Vigour.

But they were all mistaken much,
Nor had they him well sounded,
For as their Hearts, just his was such,
And just as much was wounded:

Not they with warmer Pleasure hear
When Polly', in soft Expression,
Engages the attentive Ear,
With--All is in my Possession--

Then into Raptures does he stray,
And tender Passions takes,
Who ne'er before was mov'd they say,
But with the Plate, or Stakes.

Thus, have I seen a Jew--trump Girl,
In Fields of Lincoln's--Inn,
A Bear, by Pow'r of Musick, whirl
Into extatic Grin:

Each shaggy Limb just Measure takes,
His frosty Nature fire,
Each Nerve with new Emotion shakes,
Touch'd by th'harmonious Lyre.