ABSTRACT
Dear Col'nel! Cobham's and your Country's Friend! You love aVerse, take such as I can send. A Frenchman comes, presents you with his Boy, Bows and begins.-'This Lad, Sir, is of Blois: Observe his Shape how clean! his Locks how curl'd! S My only Son, I'd have him see the World: His French is pure; his Voice too-you shall hearSir, he's your Slave, for twenty pound a year. Mere Wax as yet, you fashion him with ease, Your Barber, Cook, Upholst'rer, what you please. 10 A perfect Genius at an Opera-SongTo say too much, might do my Honour wrong: Take him with all his Virtues, on my word; His whole Ambition was to serve a Lord, But Sir, to you, with what wou'd I not part? 15 Tho' faith, I fear 'twill break his Mother's heart. Once, (and but once) I caught him in a Lye, And then, unwhipp'd, he had the grace to cry: The Fault he has I fairly shall reveal, (Cou'd you o'erlook but that)-it is, to steal.' 20
If, after this, you took the graceless Lad, Cou'd you complain, my Friend, he prov'd so bad? Faith, in such case, if you should prosecute, I think Sir Godfry should decide the Suit; Who sent the Thief that stole the Cash, a\vay, 25 And punish'd him that put it in his way.
