University of Virginia Library

H---ll---d, now five fathom deep,
Send I politics to sleep,
Longing to enjoy a laugh
With thee and thy better half,
Where no literary bevy
Suffocate your evening levee
With their bald, disjointed chat,
Of who wrote this, and who stole that;
Who scribbles in the next Review,
Whose wife's a brimstone or a blue;
Each with his own mysterious hint
Of me, before I dipp'd in print.
—“A poem, first-rate, high-life tact;
Sublime, yet every word a fact.
A most surprising show of vous,
They say, a leader in the house;
The principles so much the thing,
He dined last Sunday with the King.”
Another sneers,—“The work's seditious,—
'Tis true the names are all fictitious;
But should his hits be thrown away,
The author's publishing a key!”
Another, more emphatic still,
A sort of quintessence of quill.
“The Author's name?—a thing forbidden,
From all particularly hidden.
A noble Lord has had the credit,—
'Twas said for certain, that he read it;
'Twas fasten'd on a travelled Duke,
Of late he has a business look.
A Bishop's whisper'd.”—“Entre nous,
My Lord, the babe was given to you,
It has your wit, your brilliant style”—
“You make your answer by a smile.”
“I know, the feeling of the trade is,
That, if not yours, it is my lady's.”

The book has forty sires, at least,
As far from fact, as west from east.
Each marks his man—“A foreign prince,
(He fled the country ever since)
Too poor, he says, to keep his carriage,
(I'm sure, not beggar'd by his marriage.”)
—“A minister, a noted wit,
Heir of the mantle dropt by Pitt.”
—“A great commander.”—“Right or wrong,
You'll have the thing avow'd, ere long.”
—“Two Chancellors, an in and out;
They wrote the couplets, turn about.”
—“A most facetious reverend Dean,
Grown fat with work behind the screen.”
—“A certain very stately Lord,
Much with Lord L*nd*nd*rry b.”
Till sick of all the fools together,
You turn the talk on wind and weather;
Or seeing on your moveless dial
How drags like death your hour of trial,
Not bound to bear them (like a wife)
You fly to save your ears and life.

Let those who may, the secret tell,—
Now women—critics—world—farewell!