The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore :: :: University of Virginia Library

Come to our Fête , and bring with thee
Thy newest, best embroidery.
Come to our Fête, and show again
That pea-green coat, thou pink of men,
Which charm'd all eyes, that last survey'd it;
When Br*mm*l's self inquir'd “who made it?”—
When Cits came wond'ring, from the East,
And thought thee Poet Pye at least!

Oh! come, (if haply 'tis thy week
For looking pale,) with paly cheek;
Though more we love thy roseate days,
When the rich rouge-pot pours its blaze

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Full o'er thy face, and, amply spread,
Tips ev'n thy whisker-tops with red—
Like the last tints of dying Day
That o'er some darkling grove delay.

Bring thy best lace, thou gay Philander,
(That lace, like H*rry Al*x*nd*r,
Too precious to be wash'd,)—thy rings,
Thy seals—in short, thy prettiest things!
Put all thy wardrobe's glories on,
And yield in frogs and fringe, to none
But the great R*g---t's self alone;
Who—by particular desire—
For that night only, means to hire
A dress from Romeo C---tes, Esquire.
Hail, first of Actors! best of R*g---ts!
Born for each other's fond allegiance!

134

Both gay Lotharios—both good dressers—
Of serious Farce both learn'd Professors—
Both circled round, for use or show,
With cock's combs, wheresoe'er they go!

Thou know'st the time, thou man of lore!
It takes to chalk a ball-room floor—
Thou know'st the time, too, well-a-day!
It takes to dance that chalk away.
The Ball-room opens—far and nigh
Comets and suns beneath us lie;
O'er snow-white moons and stars we walk,
And the floor seems one sky of chalk!
But soon shall fade that bright deceit,
When many a maid, with busy feet
That sparkle in the lustre's ray,
O'er the white path shall bound and play
Like Nymphs along the Milky Way:—

135

With every step a star hath fled,
And suns grow dim beneath their tread!
So passeth life—(thus Sc*tt would write,
And spinsters read him with delight,)—
Hours are not feet, yet hours trip on,
Time is not chalk, yet time's soon gone!

But, hang this long digressive flight!—
I meant to say, thou'lt see, that night,
What falsehood rankles in their hearts,
Who say the Pr---e neglects the arts—
Neglects the arts?—no, Str---hl---g , no;
Thy Cupids answer “'tis not so;”
And every floor, that night, shall tell
How quick thou daubest, and how well.
Shine as thou may'st in French vermilion,
Thou'rt best, beneath a French cotillion;
And still com'st off, whate'er thy faults,
With flying colours in a Waltz.

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Nor need'st thou mourn the transient date
To thy best works assign'd by fate.
While some chef-d'œuvres live to weary one,
Thine boast a short life and a merry one;
Their hour of glory past and gone
With “Molly put the kettle on!”

But, bless my soul! I've scarce a leaf
Of paper left—so, must be brief.

This festive Fête, in fact, will be
The former Fête's fac-simile ;
The same long Masquerade of Rooms,
All trick'd up in such odd costumes,
(These, P*rt*r , are thy glorious works!)
You'd swear Egyptians, Moors, and Turks,
Bearing Good-Taste some deadly malice,
Had clubb'd to raise a Pic-Nic Palace;

137

And each to make the olio pleasant
Had sent a State-Room as a present.
The same fauteuils and girondoles—
The same gold Asses , pretty souls!
That, in this rich and classic dome,
Appear so perfectly at home.
The same bright river 'mong the dishes,
But not—ah! not the same dear fishes—
Late hours and claret kill'd the old ones—
So 'stead of silver and of gold ones,
(It being rather hard to raise
Fish of that specie now-a-days)
Some sprats have been by Y*rm---th's wish,
Promoted into Silver Fish,
And Gudgeons (so V---ns---tt---t told
The R*g---t) are as good as Gold!

So, prithee, come—our Fête will be
But half a Fête if wanting thee.

This Letter enclosed a Card for the Grand Fête on the 5th of February.

An amateur actor of much risible renown.

Quem tu, Melpomene, semel
Nascentem placido lumine, videris, &c.

Horat.

The Man, upon whom thou hast deign'd to look funny,
Oh Tragedy's Muse! at the hour of his birth—
Let them say what they will, that's the Man for my money,
Give others thy tears, but let me have thy mirth!

The crest of Mr. C---tes, the very amusing amateur tragedian here alluded to, was a cock; and most profusely were his liveries, harness, &c., covered with this ornament.

To those, who neither go to balls nor read the Morning Post, it may be necessary to mention, that the floors of Ball-rooms, in general, are chalked, for safety and for ornament, with various fanciful devices.

Hearts are not flint, yet flints are rent,
Hearts are not steel, yet steel is bent.

After all, however, Mr. Sc*tt may well say to the Colonel, (and, indeed, to much better wags than the Colonel,) ραον μωμεισθαι η μιμεισθαι

A foreign artist much patronized by the Prince Regent.

The name of a popular country-dance.

“C*rl---t*n H---e will exhibit a complete fac-simile, in respect to interior ornament, to what it did at the last Fête. The same splendid draperies,” &c. &c. —Morning Post.

Mr. Walsh Porter, to whose taste was left the furnishing of the rooms of Carlton House.

The salt-cellars on the Pr---e's own table were in the form of an Ass with panniers.