No More Learning

What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way!
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid; 5
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow --
The transitory breath of fame below:
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While Converts thank their poet in the skies. 10





THE CLOWN'S REPLY

JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers
To tell them the reason why asses had ears?
'An't please you,' quoth John, 'I'm not given to letters,
Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters;
Howe'er, from this time I shall ne'er see your graces, 5
As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses. '





EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON

HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack;
He led such a damnable life in this world, --
I don't think he'll wish to come back.





EPILOGUE FOR MR. LEE LEWES

HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense;
I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.
My pride forbids it ever should be said,
My heels eclips'd the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a piebald vest, 5
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.
('Takes off his mask. ')
Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth,
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps. 10
How has thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood,
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursu'd!
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,
Whose only plot it is to break our noses;
Whilst from below the trap-door Demons rise, 15
And from above the dangling deities;
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew?
May rosined lightning blast me, if I do!
No -- I will act, I'll vindicate the stage:
Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. 20
Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns!
The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins.
Oh! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme:
'Give me another horse! bind up my wounds!
-- soft -- 'twas but a dream. '
Aye, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating: 25
If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.
'Twas thus that Aesop's stag, a creature blameless,
Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless,
Once on the margin of a fountain stood,
And cavill'd at his image in the flood. 30
'The deuce confound,' he cries, 'these drumstick shanks,
They never have my gratitude nor thanks;
They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead!
But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head.
How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow! 35
My horns! I'm told horns are the fashion now. '
Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd, to his view,
Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew.
'Hoicks! hark forward! ' came thund'ring from behind,
He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind: 40
He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways;
He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze.
At length his silly head, so priz'd before,
Is taught his former folly to deplore;
Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free, 45
And at one bound he saves himself, -- like me.
('Taking a hump through the stage door'. )





EPILOGUE

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN FOR 'SHE STOOPS
TO CONQUER'

'Enter' MRS. BULKLEY,
'who curtsies very low as beginning to speak.
Then enter' MISS CATLEY,
'who stands full before her, and curtsies to the audience'.

MRS. BULKELEY.
HOLD, Ma'am, your pardon. What's your business here?

MISS CATLEY.
The Epilogue.

MRS. BULKLEY.
The Epilogue?

MISS CATLEY.
Yes, the Epilogue, my dear.

MRS. BULKLEY.
Sure you mistake, Ma'am. The Epilogue, 'I' bring it.

MISS CATLEY.
Excuse me, Ma'am. The Author bid 'me' sing it.

'Recitative'.
Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring, 5
Suspend your conversation while I sing.

MRS. BULKLEY.
Why, sure the girl's beside herself: an Epilogue of singing,
A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning.
Besides, a singer in a comic set! --
Excuse me, Ma'am, I know the etiquette. 10

MISS CATLEY.
What if we leave it to the House?

MRS. BULKLEY.
The House! -- Agreed.

MISS CATLEY>
Agreed.

MRS. BULKLEY.
And she, whose party's largest, shall proceed.
And first I hope, you'll readily agree
I've all the critics and the wits for me.
They, I am sure, will answer my commands: 15
Ye candid-judging few, hold up your hands.
What! no return? I find too late, I fear,
That modern judges seldom enter here.

MISS CATLEY.
I'm for a different set. -- Old men, whose trade is
Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies; -- 20

'Recitative'.
Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling,
Still thus address the fair with voice beguiling:--

'Air -- Cotillon'.
Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever
Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye;
Pity take on your swain so clever, 25
Who without your aid must die.
Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu!
Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho! ('Da capo'. )

MRS. BULKLEY.
Let all the old pay homage to your merit;
Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit. 30
Ye travell'd tribe, ye macaroni train,
Of French friseurs, and nosegays, justly vain,
Who take a trip to Paris once a year
To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here,
Lend me your hands. -- Oh! fatal news to tell: 35
Their hands are only lent to the Heinel.

MISS CATLEY.
Ay, take your travellers, travellers indeed!
Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed.
Where are the chiels? Ah! Ah, I well discern
The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn. 40

'Air -- A bonny young lad is my Jockey'.
I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day,
And be unco merry when you are but gay;
When you with your bagpipes are ready to play,
My voice shall be ready to carol away
With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey 45
With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey.

MRS. BULKLEY.
Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit,
Make but of all your fortune one 'va toute';
Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few,
'I hold the odds. -- Done, done, with you, with you;' 50
Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace,
'My Lord, -- your Lordship misconceives the case;'
Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner,
'I wish I'd been called in a little sooner:'
Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty; 55
Come, end the contest here, and aid my party.

MISS CATLEY.
'Air -- Ballinamony'.
Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack,
Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack;
For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack,
When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back; 60
For you're always polite and attentive,
Still to amuse us inventive,
And death is your only preventive:
Your hands and your voices for me.

MRS. BULKLEY.
Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring, 65
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring?

MISS CATLEY.
And that our friendship may remain unbroken,
What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken?

MRS. BULKLEY.
Agreed.

MISS CATLEY.
Agreed.

MRS. BULKLEY.
And now with late repentance,
Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence. 70
Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit
To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit.
('Exeunt'. )





EPILOGUE

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN FOR 'SHE STOOPS
TO CONQUER'

THERE is a place, so Ariosto sings,
A treasury for lost and missing things;
Lost human wits have places assign'd them,
And they, who lose their senses, there may find them.
But where's this place, this storehouse of the age? 5
The Moon, says he:-- but 'I' affirm the Stage:
At least in many things, I think, I see
His lunar, and our mimic world agree.
Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone,
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down. 10
Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,
And sure the folks of both are lunatics.
But in this parallel my best pretence is,
That mortals visit both to find their senses.
To this strange spot, Rakes, Macaronies, Cits 15
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither the affected city dame advancing,
Who sighs for operas, and dotes on dancing, 20
Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the 'Ballet', and calls for 'Nancy Dawson'.
The Gamester too, whose wit's all high or low,
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw,
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets, 25
Finds his lost senses out, and pay his debts.
The Mohawk too -- with angry phrases stored,
As 'D-- --, Sir,' and 'Sir, I wear a sword';
Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. 30
Here come the sons of scandal and of news,
But find no sense -- for they had none to lose.
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser
Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser;
Has he not seen how you your favour place, 35
On sentimental Queens and Lords in lace?
Without a star, a coronet or garter,
How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?
No high-life scenes, no sentiment:-- the creature
Still stoops among the low to copy nature. 50
Yes, he's far gone:-- and yet some pity fix,
The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.





THE CAPTIVITY

AN

ORATORIO



THE PERSONS.

FIRST ISRAELITISH PROPHET.
SECOND ISRAELITISH PROPHET.
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
FIRST CHALDEAN PRIEST.
SECOND CHALDEAN PRIEST.
CHALDEAN WOMAN.
CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.

SCENE - The Banks of the River Euphrates, near Babylon.


THE CAPTIVITY

ACT I -- SCENE I.

'Israelites sitting on the Banks of the Euphrates'.

FIRST PROPHET.
RECITATIVE.
YE captive tribes, that hourly work and weep
Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep,
Suspend awhile the task, the tear suspend,
And turn to God, your Father and your Friend.
Insulted, chain'd, and all the world a foe, 5
Our God alone is all we boast below.

FIRST PROPHET.
AIR.
Our God is all we boast below,
To him we turn our eyes;
And every added weight of woe
Shall make our homage rise. 10

SECOND PROPHET.
And though no temple richly drest,
Nor sacrifice is here;
We'll make his temple in our breast,
And offer up a tear.
['The first stanza repeated by the Chorus.

SECOND PROPHET.
RECITATIVE.
That strain once more; it bids remembrance rise,
And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes. 16
Ye fields of Sharon, dress'd in flow'ry pride,
Ye plains where Jordan rolls its glassy tide,
Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd,
Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around, 20
These hills how sweet! Those plains how wond'rous fair,
But sweeter still, when Heaven was with us there!

AIR.
O Memory, thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain;
To former joys recurring ever, 25
And turning all the past to pain;

Hence intruder, most distressing,
Seek the happy and the free:
The wretch who wants each other blessing,
Ever wants a friend in thee. 30

FIRST PROPHET.
RECITATIVE.
Yet, why complain? What, though by bonds confin'd,
Should bonds repress the vigour of the mind?
Have we not cause for triumph when we see
Ourselves alone from idol-worship free?
Are not this very morn those feasts begun? 35
Where prostrate error hails the rising sun?
Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain
For superstitious rites and mirth profane?

And should we mourn? Should coward virtue fly,
When impious folly rears her front on high? 40
No; rather let us triumph still the more,
And as our fortune sinks, our wishes soar.

AIR.
The triumphs that on vice attend
Shall ever in confusion end;
The good man suffers but to gain, 45
And every virtue springs from pain:

As aromatic plants bestow
No spicy fragrance while they grow;
But crush'd, or trodden to the ground,
Diffuse their balmy sweets around. 50

SECOND PROPHET.
RECITATIVE.
But hush, my sons, our tyrant lords are near;
The sounds of barb'rous pleasure strike mine ear;
Triumphant music floats along the vale;
Near, nearer still, it gathers on the gale;
The growing sound their swift approach declares; --
Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain with theirs. 56

'Enter' CHALDEAN PRIESTS 'attended'.

FIRST PRIEST.
AIR.
Come on, my companions, the triumph display;
Let rapture the minutes employ;
The sun calls us out on this festival day,
And our monarch partakes in the joy. 60

SECOND PRIEST.
Like the sun, our great monarch all rapture supplies,
Both similar blessings bestow;
The sun with his splendour illumines the skies,
And our monarch enlivens below.

A CHALDEAN WOMAN.
AIR.
Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure; 65
Love presents the fairest treasure,
Leave all other joys for me.

A CHALDEAN ATTENDANT.
Or rather, Love's delights despising,
Haste to raptures ever rising
Wine shall bless the brave and free. 70

FIRST PRIEST.
Wind and beauty thus inviting,
Each to different joys exciting,
Whither shall my choice incline?

SECOND PRIEST.
I'll waste no longer thought in choosing;
But, neither this nor that refusing, 75
I'll make them both together mine.

RECITATIVE.
But whence, when joy should brighten o'er the land,
This sullen gloom in Judah's captive band?
Ye sons of Judah, why the lute unstrung?
Or why those harps on yonder willows hung? 80
Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along,
The day demands it; sing us Sion's song.
Dismiss your griefs, and join our warbling choir,
For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre?

SECOND PROPHET.
Bow'd down with chains, the scorn of all mankind,
To want, to toil, and every ill consign'd, 86
Is this a time to bid us raise the strain,
Or mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain?
No, never! May this hand forget each art
That speeds the power of music to the heart, 90
Ere I forget the land that gave me birth,
Or join with sounds profane its sacred mirth!

FIRST PRIEST.
Insulting slaves! If gentler methods fail,
The whips and angry tortures shall prevail.
['Exeunt Chaldeans'

FIRST PROPHET.
Why, let them come, one good remains to cheer;
We fear the Lord, and know no other fear. 96

CHORUS.
Can whips or tortures hurt the mind
On God's supporting breast reclin'd?
Stand fast, and let our tyrants see
That fortitude is victory.
['Exeunt'.


ACT II.

'Scene as before'.

CHORUS OF ISRAELITES.
O PEACE of mind, angelic guest!
Thou soft companion of the breast!
Dispense thy balmy store.
Wing all our thoughts to reach the skies,
Till earth, receding from our eyes, 5
Shall vanish as we soar.

FIRST PRIEST.
RECITATIVE.
No more! Too long has justice been delay'd,
The king's commands must fully be obey'd;
Compliance with his will your peace secures,
Praise but our gods, and every good is yours. 10
But if, rebellious to his high command,
You spurn the favours offer'd from his hand,
Think, timely think, what terrors are behind;
Reflect, nor tempt to rage the royal mind.

SECOND PRIEST.
AIR.
Fierce is the whirlwind howling 15
O'er Afric's sandy plain,
And fierce the tempest rolling
Along the furrow'd main:
But storms that fly,
To rend the sky, 20
Every ill presaging,
Less dreadful show
To worlds below
Than angry monarch's raging.

ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
RECITATIVE.
Ah, me! What angry terrors round us grow; 25
How shrinks my soul to meet the threaten'd blow!
Ye prophets, skill'd in Heaven's eternal truth,
Forgive my sex's fears, forgive my youth!
If, shrinking thus, when frowning power appears,
I wish for life, and yield me to my fears. 30
Let us one hour, one little hour obey;
To-morrow's tears may wash our stains away.

AIR.
To the last moment of his breath
On hope the wretch relies;
And e'en the pang preceding death 35
Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the gleaming taper's light,
Adorns and cheers our way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray. 40

SECOND PRIEST.
RECITATIVE.
Why this delay? At length for joy prepare;
I read your looks, and see compliance there.
Come on, and bid the warbling rapture rise,
Our monarch's fame the noblest theme supplies.
Begin, ye captive bands, and strike the lyre, 45
The time, the theme, the place, and all conspire.

CHALDEAN WOMAN.
AIR.
See the ruddy morning smiling,
Hear the grove to bliss beguiling;
Zephyrs through the woodland playing,
Streams along the valley straying. 50

FIRST PRIEST.
While these a constant revel keep,
Shall Reason only teach to weep?
Hence, intruder! We'll pursue
Nature, a better guide than you.

SECOND PRIEST.
Every moment, as it flows, 55
Some peculiar pleasure owes;
Then let us, providently wise,
Seize the debtor as it flies.

Think not to-morrow can repay
The pleasures that we lose to-day; 60
To-morrow's most unbounded store
Can but pay its proper score.

FIRST PRIEST.
RECITATIVE.
But hush! See, foremost of the captive choir,
The master-prophet grasps his full-ton'd lyre.
Mark where he sits, with executing art, 65
Feels for each tone, and speeds it to the heart;
See how prophetic rapture fills his form,
Awful as clouds that nurse the growing storm;
And now his voice, accordant to the string,
Prepares our monarch's victories to sing. 70

FIRST PROPHET.
AIR.
From north, from south, from east, from west,
Conspiring nations come;
Tremble thou vice-polluted breast;
Blasphemers, all be dumb.

The tempest gathers all around, 75
On Babylon it lies;
Down with her! down -- down to the ground;
She sinks, she groans, she dies.

SECOND PROPHET.
Down with her, Lord, to lick the dust,
Ere yonder setting sun; 80
Serve her as she hath served the just!
'Tis fixed -- it shall be done.

FIRST PRIEST.
RECITATIVE.
No more! When slaves thus insolent presume,
The king himself shall judge, and fix their doom.
Unthinking wretches! have not you, and all, 85
Beheld our power in Zedekiah's fall?
To yonder gloomy dungeon turn your eyes;
See where dethron'd your captive monarch lies,
Depriv'd of sight and rankling in his chain; 89
See where he mourns his friends and children slain.
Yet know, ye slaves, that still remain behind
More ponderous chains, and dungeons more confin'd.

CHORUS OF ALL.
Arise, all potent ruler, rise,
And vindicate thy people's cause;
Till every tongue in every land 95
Shall offer up unfeign'd applause.
['Exeunt'.


ACT III.

'Scene as before'.

FIRST PRIEST.
RECITATIVE.
YES, my companions, Heaven's decrees are past,
And our fix'd empire shall for ever last;
In vain the madd'ning prophet threatens woe,
In vain rebellion aims her secret blow;
Still shall our fame and growing power be spread,
And still our vengeance crush the traitor's head. 6

AIR.
Coeval with man
Our empire began,
And never shall fail
Till ruin shakes all; 10
When ruin shakes all,
Then shall Babylon fall.

FIRST PROPHET.
RECITATIVE.
'Tis thus that pride triumphant rears the head,
A little while, and all their power is fled;
But ha! what means yon sadly plaintive train, 15
That this way slowly bend along the plain?
And now, methinks, to yonder bank they bear
A palled corse, and rest the body there.
Alas! too well mine eyes indignant trace
The last remains of Judah's royal race: 20
Our monarch falls, and now our fears are o'er,
Unhappy Zedekiah is no more!

AIR.
Ye wretches who, by fortune's hate,
In want and sorrow groan;
Come ponder his severer fate, 25
And learn to bless your own.

You vain, whom youth and pleasure guide,
Awhile the bliss suspend;
Like yours, his life began in pride,
Like his, your lives shall end. 30

SECOND PROPHET.
RECITATIVE.
Behold his wretched corse with sorrow worn,
His squalid limbs with pond'rous fetters torn;
Those eyeless orbs that shock with ghastly glare,
Those ill-becoming rags -- that matted hair!
And shall not Heaven for this its terrors show, 35
Grasp the red bolt, and lay the guilty low?
How long, how long, Almighty God of all,
Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall!

ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
AIR.
As panting flies the hunted hind,
Where brooks refreshing stray; 40
And rivers through the valley wind,
That stop the hunter's way:

Thus we, O Lord, alike distrest,
For streams of mercy long;
Those streams which cheer the sore opprest,
And overwhelm the strong. 46

FIRST PROPHET.
RECITATIVE.
But, whence that shout? Good heavens! amazement all!
See yonder tower just nodding to the fall:
See where an army covers all the ground,
Saps the strong wall, and pours destruction round;
The ruin smokes, destruction pours along; 51
How low the great, how feeble are the strong!
The foe prevails, the lofty walls recline --
O God of hosts, the victory is thine!

CHORUS OF ISRAELITES.
Down with them, Lord, to lick the dust; 55
Thy vengeance be begun:
Serve them as they have serv'd the just,
And let thy will be done.

FIRST PRIEST.
RECITATIVE.
All, all is lost. The Syrian army fails,
Cyrus, the conqueror of the world, prevails, 60
The ruin smokes, the torrent pours along;
How low the proud, how feeble are the strong!
Save us, O Lord! to thee, though late, we pray,
And give repentance but an hour's delay.

FIRST AND SECOND PRIEST.
AIR.
Thrice happy, who in happy hour 65
To Heaven their praise bestow,
And own his all-consuming power
Before they feel the blow!

FIRST PROPHET.
RECITATIVE.
Now, now's our time! ye wretches bold and blind,
Brave but to God, and cowards to mankind, 70
Too late you seek that power unsought before,
Your wealth, your pride, your kingdom, are no more.

AIR.
O Lucifer, thou son of morn,
Alike of Heaven and man the foe;
Heaven, men, and all, 75
Now press thy fall,
And sink thee lowest of the low.

FIRST PROPHET.
O Babylon, how art thou fallen!
Thy fall more dreadful from delay!
Thy streets forlorn 80
To wilds shall turn,
Where toads shall pant, and vultures prey.

SECOND PROPHET.
RECITATIVE.
Such be her fate. But listen! from afar
The clarion's note proclaims the finish'd war!
Cyrus, our great restorer, is at hand, 85
And this way leads his formidable band.
Give, give your songs of Sion to the wind,
And hail the benefactor of mankind:
He comes pursuant to divine decree,
To chain the strong, and set the captive free. 90

CHORUS OF YOUTHS.
Rise to transports past expressing,
Sweeter from remember'd woes;
Cyrus comes, our wrongs redressing,
Comes to give the world repose.

CHORUS OF VIRGINS.
Cyrus comes, the world redressing, 95
Love and pleasure in his train;
Comes to heighten every blessing,
Comes to soften every pain.

SEMI-CHORUS.
Hail to him with mercy reigning,
Skilled in every peaceful art; 100
Who from bonds our limbs unchaining,
Only binds the willing heart.

THE LAST CHORUS.
But chief to Thee, our God, defender, friend,
Let praise be given to all eternity;
O Thou, without beginning, without end, 105
Let us, and all, begin and end, in Thee!





VERSES IN REPLY TO AN INVITATION TO DINNER AT DR. BAKER'S.

'This 'is' a poem! This 'is' a copy of verses! '

YOUR mandate I got,
You may all go to pot;
Had your senses been right,
You'd have sent before night;
As I hope to be saved, 5
I put off being shaved;
For I could not make bold,
While the matter was cold,
To meddle in suds,
Or to put on my duds; 10
So tell Horneck and Nesbitt,
And Baker and his bit,
And Kauffmann beside,
And the Jessamy Bride,
With the rest of the crew, 15
The Reynoldses two,
Little Comedy's face,
And the Captain in lace,
(By-the-bye you may tell him,
I have something to sell him; 20
Of use I insist,
When he comes to enlist.
Your worships must know
That a few days ago,
An order went out, 25
For the foot guards so stout
To wear tails in high taste,
Twelve inches at least:
Now I've got him a scale
To measure each tail, 30
To lengthen a short tail,
And a long one to curtail. ) --
Yet how can I when vext,
Thus stray from my text?
Tell each other to rue 35
Your Devonshire crew,
For sending so late
To one of my state.
But 'tis Reynolds's way
From wisdom to stray, 50
And Angelica's whim
To be frolick like him,
But, alas! Your good worships, how could they be wiser,
When both have been spoil'd in to-day's 'Advertiser'?
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.





LETTER IN PROSE AND VERSE TO MRS. BUNBURY

MADAM,

I read your letter with all that allowance which critical candour could
require, but after all find so much to object to, and so much to raise
my indignation, that I cannot help giving it a serious answer.

I am not so ignorant, Madam, as not to see there are many sarcasms
contained in it, and solecisms also. (Solecism is a word that comes from
the town of Soleis in Attica, among the Greeks, built by Solon, and
applied as we use the word Kidderminster for curtains, from a town also
of that name; -- but this is learning you have no taste for! ) -- I say,
Madam, there are sarcasms in it, and solecisms also. But not to seem an
ill-natured critic, I'll take leave to quote your own words, and give
you my remarks upon them as they occur. You begin as follows:--

'I hope, my good Doctor, you soon will be here,
And your spring-velvet coat very smart will appear,
To open our ball the first day of the year. '

Pray, Madam, where did you ever find the epithet 'good,' applied to the
title of Doctor? Had you called me 'learned Doctor,' or 'grave Doctor,'
or 'noble Doctor,' it might be allowable, because they belong to the
profession. But, not to cavil at trifles, you talk of my 'spring-velvet
coat,' and advise me to wear it the first day in the year, -- that is,
in the middle of winter! -- a spring-velvet in the middle of winter! ! !
That would be a solecism indeed! and yet, to increase the inconsistence,
in another part of your letter you call me a beau. Now, on one side or
other, you must be wrong. If I am a beau, I can never think of wearing a
spring-velvet in winter: and if I am not a beau, why then, that explains
itself. But let me go on to your two next strange lines:--

'And bring with you a wig, that is modish and gay,
To dance with the girls that are makers of hay. '

The absurdity of making hay at Christmas, you yourself seem sensible of:
you say your sister will laugh; and so indeed she well may! The Latins
have an expression for a contemptuous sort of laughter, 'Naso contemnere
adunco'; that is, to laugh with a crooked nose. She may laugh at you in
the manner of the ancients if she thinks fit. But now I come to the most
extraordinary of all extraordinary propositions, which is, to take your
and your sister's advice in playing at loo. The presumption of the offer
raises my indignation beyond the bounds of prose; it inspires me at once
with verse and resentment. I take advice! and from whom? You shall hear.

First let me suppose, what may shortly be true,
The company set, and the word to be, Loo;
All smirking, and pleasant, and big with adventure,
And ogling the stake which is fix'd in the centre.
Round and round go the cards, while I inwardly damn 5
At never once finding a visit from Pam.
I lay down my stake, apparently cool,
While the harpies about me all pocket the pool.
I fret in my gizzard, yet, cautious and sly,
I wish all my friends may be bolder than I: 10
Yet still they sit snug, not a creature will aim
By losing their money to venture at fame.
'Tis in vain that at niggardly caution I scold,
'Tis in vain that I flatter the brave and the bold:
All play their own way, and they think me an ass, -- 15
'What does Mrs. Bunbury? ' 'I, Sir?