"O-ho! quoth my friend, he'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice : There's a pasty."-" a pasty !" repeated the Jew; "I don't care, if I keep a corner for't too." "What the de'el, mon, a pasty! re-echoed the Scot, Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that." "We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out; "We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about. While thus we resolved, and the pasty delayed, With looks that quite petrified, entered the maid; A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night.
But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her:
That she came with some terrible news from the ba-
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven,
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus-but let similes drop-
And now that I think on't, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced,
To send such good verses to one of your taste;
You've got an odd something-a kind of discerning→→→
A relish a taste-sickened over by learning;
At least, it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that's your own.
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this:
To Iris, in Bow-street, Covent-garden.
SAV, cruel Iris, pretty rake,
Dear mercenary beauty, What annual off'ring shall I make Expressive of my duty?
My heart a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,
Say, would the angry fair-one prize
The gift, who slights the giver?
A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give-and let 'em.
If gems, or gold impart a joy,
I'll give them-when I get 'em.
I'll give-but not the full blown rose,
Or rose-bud, more in fashion;
Such short-lived off'rings but disclose.
A transitory passion.
I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere than civil;
I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid,
I'll give thee to the devil.
LONG had I sought in vain to find
A likeness for the scribbling kind;
The modern scribbling kind, who write
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite ;
Till reading, I forget what day on,
A chapter out of Tooke's Phantheon,
I think I met with something there,
To suit my purpose to a hair:
But let us not proceed too furious;
First please to turn to God Mercurius;
You'll find him pictured at full length
In book the second, page the tenth :
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,
And now proceed me to our simile.
Imprimis, pray observe his hat;
Wings upon either side-mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather! very right,
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bards decreed :
A just comparison. Proceed.
In the next place, his feet peruse, Wings grow again from both his shoes; Designed, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air; And here my simile unites;
For in a modern poet's flights,
I'm sure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head.
Lastly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand,
Filled with a snake incircled wand;
By classic authors, termed caduceus,
And highly famed for several uses.
To wit-most wond'rously endued;
No poppy-water half so good;
For let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,
Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore.
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's souls to hell.
Now to apply, begin we then;
His wand's a modern author's pen!
The serpents round about it twined,
Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venomed bites;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike do both conduce to sleep.
This diff'rence only, as the God
Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod,
With his goose quill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.
And here my simile almost tript; Yet grant a word by way of postscript. Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing:
Well! what of that? out with it-stealing :
In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he :
But e'en this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance.
Our modern bards! why what a pox
Are they but senseless stones and blocks?
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