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Sir John.
July!—'S death!—July! or ass, or broom,
More you'd heed, when passing to a room.
July, (stopping.)
'S life—Just-Ass o-Peace!—Is that you there?
Sir John.
Yes—in this dark press behind the stair,
Where you throw old besoms, boots, and shoes.—
Come here, and tell me what is the news?—
Your opinion of things in general?—
Your stories? I know you've got ſeveral.
July.
My stars!—In that nasty black box there!—
Good b'ye Just ass!—I've no time to spare.
Sir, you sit with so much case and grace,
Company would but confuse the place.
Sir John.
My black haired beauty, with skin like snow;
With plump cheeks, red as roses in blow;
With fat corpus, as sleek as a mole;
O, do not leave me here in this hole!
Better than money's a friend in court,
Take pity and you'll get favour for't!
Private motives are always my guides,
And for you, right or wrong, I'll decide.
You need not doubt it, though I mention
The purity of my intention,
For this I hold up, by way of blind,
E'en when nothing less directs my mind.
