Finish these langours! Oh! I'm sick Of dying airs, I know the trick; Long since I've learn'd to well explain Th'unmeaning cant of fire and pain, And see through all the senseless lies Of burning darts from killing eyes; I'm tir'd with this continual rout Of bowing low and leading out. Finish, &c. Finish this tedious dangling trade, By which so many fools are made; For fools they are, whom you can please By such affected airs as these: At opera near my box to stand, And slyly press the given hand, Thus may you wait whole years in vain; But sure you would, were you in pain. Finish, &c.