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The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore

Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes
  

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Every word of it true, Dick—th' escape from
Aunt's thrall—
Western road—lyric fragments—curl-papers and all.

381

My sole stipulation, ere link'd at the shrine
(As some balance between Fanny's numbers and mine),
Was that, when we were one, she must give up the Nine;
Nay, devote to the Gods her whole stock of MS.
With a vow never more against prose to transgress.
This she did, like a heroine;—smack went to bits
The whole produce sublime of her dear little wits—
Sonnets, elegies, epigrams, odes, canzonets—
Some twisted up neatly, to form allumettes,
Some turn'd into papillotes, worthy to rise
And enwreathe Berenice's bright locks in the skies!
While the rest, honest Larry (who's now in my pay),
Begg'd, as “lover of po'thry,” to read on the way.