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.