The London Chronicle, XCII (August 24, 1802), p. 187
At Paris, for varieties
We find a restless passion;
Their language, dress, and fricasees,
Are all—the sport of Fashion.
At higher game when Fashion flew,
Behold, a Revolution!
Grown tir'd of Kings, out came a new
But this soon turn'd the people sick,
For Fashion shifts at random;
Reform suceeds reform, too quick
To let us understand them.
Fond of the glitter of a Court,
Spurning the name of King;
See them to other terms resort,
To qualify the thing.
So when a dog, of colic sick,
And howling with his pain.
Disgorges spume; 'tis but to lick
His vomit up again.
Republicans of old were stern,
In maxims, garb, and manners;
And feather'd fops must much unlearn,
To rank beneath their banners.
Could Cato, or Lycurgus, rise,
Patriots in silks and lace
Would overcome, so droll the guise,
His gravity of face!
Some gaudy change is all they seek,
Low mummery, and tricks;
And shew, by many an idle freak,