 | May Fair |  |
A Cato in his climacteric,
Making my very soul hysteric;
Your genuine Reminiscent, full
Of all that dullest makes the dull;
The stuff that time in pity stifles,—
The trifles—nay, the shade of trifles;
The stalest of the stalest stories,
Of long forgotten Whigs and Tories;
Embalming in his sexton-prose
The colour of their wigs and clothes;
The tedious twaddle of a brain,
Flat as his own homebrew'd champagne.
Oh! woman!—but “of this too much,”
May I be doom'd to hear High Dutch—
Or sit beside a Portuguese,
When summer sets her at her ease;
Or dine in presence of a wit,
In tortures till he makes a hit;
Or meet the T*mpl*s, sons or brothers—
Or see my flirt look soft on others—
Or listen to a H*me oration—
Or travel Sec de la legation.
Making my very soul hysteric;
Your genuine Reminiscent, full
Of all that dullest makes the dull;
The stuff that time in pity stifles,—
The trifles—nay, the shade of trifles;
The stalest of the stalest stories,
Of long forgotten Whigs and Tories;
Embalming in his sexton-prose
The colour of their wigs and clothes;
The tedious twaddle of a brain,
Flat as his own homebrew'd champagne.
67
May I be doom'd to hear High Dutch—
Or sit beside a Portuguese,
When summer sets her at her ease;
Or dine in presence of a wit,
In tortures till he makes a hit;
Or meet the T*mpl*s, sons or brothers—
Or see my flirt look soft on others—
Or listen to a H*me oration—
Or travel Sec de la legation.
| May Fair | |