I loved Thrale's widow and Thrale's wife
But now, believe--to write my life!
I'd rather trust my negro.
I gave the public works of merit,
Written with vigour, fraught with spirit,
Applause crowned all my labours;
But thy delusive pages speak
My palsied powers, exhausted, weak,
The scoff of friends and neighbours.
They speak me insolent and rude,
Light, trivial, puerile, and crude,
The child of pride and vanity.
Poor Tuscan-like improvisation
Is but of English sense castration,
And infantine inanity.
Such idle rhymes, like Sybil's leaves,
_Kindly_ the scattering winds receive--
The gatherer proves a scorner.
But hold! I see the coming day!
The spectre said--and stalked away,
To sleep in Poet's Corner.
* * * * *
WORSE AND WORSE.
Doctor Perne happening to call a clergyman a fool, who was not totally
undeserving of the title, but who resented the indignity so highly, that
he threatened to complain to his diocesan, the Bishop of Ely, "Do so,"
says the Doctor, "and he will confirm you."
J.G.
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