 | May Fair |  |
“They say, the Bard, delicious treble,
You've heard, of course, his chansons rebelles,
Scorning to mix his pretty verses
(As odd as harlequins in hearses)
With that infinitude of prosing,
That sets our whole seven senses dozing,
In all the regicide reviews;
Has put new stockings on his muse!
Thinks that the sight of loaves and fishes
Would decorate a poet's dishes;
In sundry paragraphs and rhymes
Is feeling out his way by Times:
Nay, R*g*rs swears, has joined the Tories,
And sighs,—Oh tempora! Oh mores!
You've heard, of course, his chansons rebelles,
Scorning to mix his pretty verses
(As odd as harlequins in hearses)
44
That sets our whole seven senses dozing,
In all the regicide reviews;
Has put new stockings on his muse!
Thinks that the sight of loaves and fishes
Would decorate a poet's dishes;
In sundry paragraphs and rhymes
Is feeling out his way by Times:
Nay, R*g*rs swears, has joined the Tories,
And sighs,—Oh tempora! Oh mores!
| May Fair | |