You Gallery Haunters, who love to lye snug, And maunch Apples or Cakes, while some Neighbour you hugg; Ye lofties, Genteels, who above us all sit, And look down with Contempt, on the Mob in the Pit, Here's what you like best, Jigg, Song and the rest, Free Laughers, close Graffers, dry Jokers, old Soakers, Kind Cousins, by Dozens, your Customs don't break: Sly Spouses with Blouses, grave Horners, in Corners, Kind No-wits, save Poets, clap 'till your Hands ake, And tho' the Wits Damn us, we'll say the Whims take. _A_ SONG _Set by Mr._ JOHN BARRETT, _and Sung by Mrs._ LINDSEY. [Music] _Caelia_ hence with Affectation, Hence with all this careless Air; Hypocrisy is out of Fashion, With the Witty and the Fair: Nature all thy Arts discloses, While the Pleasures she supplies; Paint thy glowing Cheeks with Roses, And inflame thy sparkling Eyes. Foolish _Caelia_ not to know, Love thy Int'rest and thy Duty; Thou to love alone dost owe, All thy Joy, and all thy Beauty: Mark the tuneful Feather'd kind, At the coming of the Spring; All in happy Pairs are joyn'd, And because they love they Sing. _A_ SONG, _Set by Mr._ CLARK. [Music] How often have I curs'd that sable Deceit, For making me wish and admire; And rifle poor _Ovid_ to learn to intreat, When Reason might check my desire: For sagely of late it has been disclos'd, There's nothing, nothing conceal'd uncommon; No Miracles under a Mask repos'd, When knowing _Cynthia's_ a Woman. Tho' Beauty's great Charms our Sences delude, 'Tis the Centre attracts our Needle; And Love's a Jest when thought to intrude, The design of it to unriddle: A Virgin may show strange coyness in Love, And tell you Chimera's of Honour; But give her her Wish, the Man she approves, No Labour he'll have to win her. FINIS.