Beware, though, while you thus importune, Don't get the girl, and miss the fortune. I knew a brother of our craft, Who slyly tied the knot, and laugh'd To think Papa must prove forgiving, And find them both the means of living: And so he did, (here fain I'd stop,) He fix'd them in a fruit'rer's shop! With final 'leave'--a precious warning-- To "send for 'orders' every morning!" You go to plays, you quiz the Cits, Become great critics, shine as wits; Ne'er at a loss for something caustic, And quite at home at an acrostic: And whilst thus flippant, sprightly, able, Can scorn a hooting from the rabble. I venerate your office truly, Having but doff'd the livery newly, And, like yourself (as I've a notion), Am looking out for high promotion. If you are wise, care not a louse For places in the Custom-house; By which some think, with much parade, Our services are more than paid; But, list to me, a better ending You'll make, though far less condescending. To learn fresh secrets, make a swop at, Without reserve, each house you stop at; And be not merely on the sly To pick up trash, but make it fly. Thus have it said, where'er you came, Instead of robbing them of game, You've shown a large, a lib'ral bounty, And furnish'd sport for all the county! Never be seen with bundle or basket, (A proper Master wouldn't ask it); Some blackguard boy, a closet hid in, You'll always find to do your bidding, Repaid with scraps (sufficient treat) As you shall think both fit and 'meat.' The self-same boy, with self-same pay, Cleans all the shoes; again next day He re-appears, just in the nick, First cuts the loaf, then cuts his stick! When errands you are sent upon, Be sure to blend them with your own; The boy can't deputize, 'tis clear, When it's to drink a pot of beer Or kiss your sweetheart; either wicket, Wants an untransferable ticket. Remember, when you wait at table, To pick up all the wit you're able, For bits of songs and scraps of plays Turn to account a thousand ways; You'll find yourself downright bewitching With all the ladies in the kitchen, Who'll swear you give such rare delight, That brother flunkeys die with spite, Venting new slanders without end; For why? 'a fav'rite has no friend!' The reason's plain why so abusive, All hate an out-and-out exclusive! When on a message you are sent, (On your own whim more strictly bent,) Choose your own words, and jargon even, Though to a Duke or Duchess given: How should your Lord or Lady know About it half so well as you? And for the answer, (till you're bother'd,) Let that be quite completely smother'd; Or given at all, adorn'd just so As you think proper things should go. You're the best judge what sort of friends