The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
 | I, II. |
| III, IV. |
 | V. |
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| VI, VII. |
| VIII, IX. |
| X. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
118
LETTER V. FROM THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF C*RK TO LADY ------.
My dear Lady ------! I've been just sending out
About five hundred cards for a snug little Rout—
(By the bye, you've seen Rokeby?—this moment got mine—
The Mail-Coach Edition —prodigiously fine!)
But I can't conceive how, in this very cold weather,
I'm ever to bring my five hundred together;
As, unless the thermometer's near boiling heat,
One can never get half of one's hundreds to meet.
(Apropos—you'd have laugh'd to see Townsend last night,
Escort to their chairs, with his staff, so polite,
The “three maiden Miseries,” all in a fright;
Poor Townsend, like Mercury, filling two posts,
Supervisor of thieves, and chief-usher of ghosts!)
About five hundred cards for a snug little Rout—
(By the bye, you've seen Rokeby?—this moment got mine—
The Mail-Coach Edition —prodigiously fine!)
But I can't conceive how, in this very cold weather,
I'm ever to bring my five hundred together;
As, unless the thermometer's near boiling heat,
One can never get half of one's hundreds to meet.
(Apropos—you'd have laugh'd to see Townsend last night,
Escort to their chairs, with his staff, so polite,
The “three maiden Miseries,” all in a fright;
119
Supervisor of thieves, and chief-usher of ghosts!)
But, my dear Lady ------, can't you hit on some notion,
At least for one night to set London in motion?—
As to having the R*g*nt, that show is gone by—
Besides, I've remark'd that (between you and I)
The Marchesa and he, inconvenient in more ways,
Have taken much lately to whispering in doorways;
Which—consid'ring, you know, dear, the size of the two—
Makes a block that one's company cannot get through;
And a house such as mine is, with doorways so small,
Has no room for such cumbersome love-work at all.—
(Apropos, though, of love-work—you've heard it, I hope,
That Napoleon's old mother's to marry the Pope,—
What a comical pair!)—but, to stick to my Rout,
'Twill be hard if some novelty can't be struck out.
Is there no Algerine, no Kamchatkan arriv'd?
No Plenipo Pacha, three-tail'd and ten-wiv'd?
No Russian, whose dissonant consonant name
Almost rattles to fragments the trumpet of fame?
At least for one night to set London in motion?—
As to having the R*g*nt, that show is gone by—
Besides, I've remark'd that (between you and I)
The Marchesa and he, inconvenient in more ways,
Have taken much lately to whispering in doorways;
Which—consid'ring, you know, dear, the size of the two—
Makes a block that one's company cannot get through;
And a house such as mine is, with doorways so small,
Has no room for such cumbersome love-work at all.—
(Apropos, though, of love-work—you've heard it, I hope,
That Napoleon's old mother's to marry the Pope,—
What a comical pair!)—but, to stick to my Rout,
'Twill be hard if some novelty can't be struck out.
120
No Plenipo Pacha, three-tail'd and ten-wiv'd?
No Russian, whose dissonant consonant name
Almost rattles to fragments the trumpet of fame?
I remember the time, three or four winters back,
When—provided their wigs were but decently black—
A few Patriot monsters, from Spain, were a sight
That would people one's house for one, night after night.
But—whether the Ministers paw'd them too much—
(And you know how they spoil whatsoever they touch)
Or, whether Lord G---rge (the young man about town)
Has, by dint of bad poetry, written them down,
One has certainly lost one's peninsular rage;
And the only stray Patriot seen for an age
Has been at such places (think, how the fit cools!)
As old Mrs. V---gh*n's or Lord L*v*rp---l's.
When—provided their wigs were but decently black—
A few Patriot monsters, from Spain, were a sight
That would people one's house for one, night after night.
But—whether the Ministers paw'd them too much—
(And you know how they spoil whatsoever they touch)
Or, whether Lord G---rge (the young man about town)
Has, by dint of bad poetry, written them down,
One has certainly lost one's peninsular rage;
And the only stray Patriot seen for an age
Has been at such places (think, how the fit cools!)
As old Mrs. V---gh*n's or Lord L*v*rp---l's.
121
But, in short, my dear, names like Wintztschitstopschinzoudhoff
Are the only things now make an ev'ning go smooth off:
So, get me a Russian—till death I'm your debtor—
If he brings the whole Alphabet, so much the better.
And—Lord! if he would but, in character, sup
Off his fish-oil and candles, he'd quite set me up!
Are the only things now make an ev'ning go smooth off:
So, get me a Russian—till death I'm your debtor—
If he brings the whole Alphabet, so much the better.
And—Lord! if he would but, in character, sup
Off his fish-oil and candles, he'd quite set me up!
Au revoir, my sweet girl—I must leave you in haste—
Little Gunter has brought me the Liqueurs to taste.
Little Gunter has brought me the Liqueurs to taste.
POSTSCRIPT.
By the bye, have you found any friend that can construeThat Latin account, t'other day, of a Monster?
If we can't get a Russian, and that thing in Latin
Be not too improper, I think I'll bring that in.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |