Old Mark, mounted on the chair at the upper end of the table,
proceeded with the tale.
[Illustration: page233]
THE OXFORD RAKE'S PROGRESS.
Tom was a tailor's heir,
A dashing blade,
Whose sire in trade
Enough had made,
By cribbage, short skirts, and little capes,
Long bills, and items for buckram, tapes,
Buttons, twist, and small ware;
Which swell a bill out so delightfully,
Or perhaps I should say frightfully,
~234~~
That is, if it related to myself.
Suffice it to be told
In wealth he roll'd,
And being a fellow of some spirit,
Set up his coach;
To 'scape reproach,
He put the tailor on the shelf,
And thought to make his boy a man of merit.
On old Etona's classic ground,
Tom's infant years in circling round
Were spent 'mid Greek and Latin;
The boy had parts both gay and bright,
A merry, mad, facetious sprite,
With heart as soft as satin.
For sport or spree Tom never lack'd;
A _con_{21} with all, his sock he crack'd
With _oppidan_ or gownsman:
Could _smug_ a sign, or quiz the _dame_,
Or row, or ride, or poach for game,
With _cads_, or Eton townsmen.
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