autem cove

Oh! where will be the culls of the bing / A hundred stretches hence? / The bene morts, who sweetly sing, / A hundred stretches hence? / The autum-cacklers, autum-coves, / The jolly blade who wildly roves; / And where the buffer, bruiser, blowen, / And all the cops and beaks so knowin', / A hundred stretches hence?