Well dost thou ask me in thy friendly Lays,
How in this factious Place I spend my Days:
Why briefly thus; as is the modish way,
Seldom I read, and much more seldom pray:
Logick I like not, that mechanick Art,
To prove the Whole is greater than a Part:
Divinity and Law alike displease;
In short, I love my Bottle and my Ease;
The Tenor of a College Life I keep,
Eat thrice a Day, pun, smoke, get drunk, and sleep.

Never to Love I tune my artless String,
For to what She at Oxford shou'd I sing;
Our first--rate Toasts, that sparkle at the Ball,
Scarce rise above the Shop--board or the Stall;
A vulgar Race--yet so confounded vain,
They strut in tawdry Silks, and spurn at ev'ry Swain:
Wherefore some holy Dotard let them wed,
And take the rev'rend Lumber to their Bed;
There let the Doctor, in a wanton Mood,
Drudge out the last dull Spirits of his Blood:
For me, by Heav'n, with some damn'd common Dame,
Sooner at Wyburn's would I quench my Flame;
Take the lewd Strumpet to my warm Embrace,
Than mix with such a scoundrel haughty Race.