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To persons and places he sends his disguises,
And dresses up all his banditti,
Who, as pickpockets flock to country assizes,
Crowd up to the court and the city.
They're at every elbow, and every ear,
And ready at every call, Sir;
The vigilant scout, plants his agents about,
And has something to do with us all, Sir.
In some he has part, and some he has whole,
And of some, (like the Vicar of _Baddow_)
It can neither be said they have body or soul;
And only are devils in shadow.
The pretty and witty are devils in masque;
The beauties are mere apparitions;
The homely alone by their faces are known,
And the good by their ugly conditions.
The beaux walk about like the shadows of men,
And wherever he leads them they follow;
But tak'em, and shak'em, there's not one in ten
But's as light as a feather, and hollow.
Thus all his affairs he drives on in disguise,
And he tickles mankind with a feather,
Creeps in at one's ear, and looks out at our eyes,
And jumbles our senses together.


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