Most modern wits such monstrous fools have shown,
They seem'd not of Heav'n's making, but their own.
Those nauseous harlequins in farce may pass,
But there goes more to a substantial ass!
Something of man must be expos'd to view,
That, gallants, they may more resemble you.
Sir Fopling is a fool so nicely writ,
The ladies would mistake him for a wit;
And, when he sings, talks loud, and cocks, would cry:
“I vow, methinks he 's pretty company:
So brisk, so gay, so travel'd, so refin'd,
As he took pains to graff upon his kind.”
True fops help nature's work, and go to school,
To file and finish God-A'mighty's fool.
Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him can call;
He 's knight o' th' shire, and represents ye all.
From each he meets he culls whate'er he can;
Legion's his name, a people in a man.
His bulky folly gathers as it goes,
And, rolling o'er you, like a snowball grows.
His various modes from various fathers follow;
One taught the toss, and one the new French wallow:
His sword knot this, his crevat this design'd;
And this, the yard-long snake he twirls behind.
From one the sacred periwig he gain'd,
Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat profan'd.
Another's diving bow he did adore,
Which with a shog casts all the hair before,
Till he with full decorum brings it back,
And rises with a water-spaniel shake.
As for his songs (the ladies' dear delight),
Those sure he took from most of you who write.
Yet every man is safe from what he fear'd;
For no one fool is hunted from the herd.