LET us live, live! for, being dead, 
The pretty spots, 
Ribbons and knots, 
And the fine French dress for the head, 
No lady wears upon her 
In the cold, cold bed of honour. 
Beat down our grottos, and hew down our bowers, 
Dig up our arbours, and root up our flowers; 
Our gardens are bulwarks and bastions become; 
Then hang up our lute, we must sing to the drum. 
 
Our patches and our curls, 
So exact in each station, 
Our powders and our purls, 
Are now out of fashion. 
Hence with our needles, and give us your spades; 
We, that were ladies, grow coarse as our maids. 
Our coaches have driven us to balls at the court, 
We now must drive barrows to earth up the fort.