But to me, you are still what I found you, Before you grew clever and tall; And you'll think of the spell that once bound you; And you'll come-won't you come?—to our Ball! LETTERS FROM TEIGNMOUTH II PRIVATE THEATRICALS Sweet, when actors first appear, The loud collision of applauding gloves. — MOULTRIE. YOUR labours, my talented brother, Are happily over at last: They tell me that, somehow or other, The Bill is rejected, or past; And now you'll be coming, I'm certain, Arrangements are nearly completed; Whom Lady Albina entreated We'd keep, at all hazards, for you: Sir Arthur makes horrible faces; Lord John is a trifle too tall; And yours are the safest embraces Come, Clarence;-it's really enchanting rustle In chorus, at Fustian Hall. robes By the bye, there are two or three matters quet His white wig, for Fustian Hall! Hunca Munca must have a huge sabre; And we're quite at a stand still with Weber Or how shall we make an impression And, Clarence, you'll really delight us, Come, Clarence! your idol Albina We all think there never was seen a Performer so like the O'Neill: At rehearsals, her exquisite fancy For one tear that trickles at Drury, Dread objects are scattered before her The sword never seems to alarm her That hangs on a peg to the wall; And she dotes on thy rusty old armour, Lord Fustian, of Fustian Hall. She stabbed a bright mirror this morning, (Poor Kitty was quite out of breath!)And trampled, in anger and scorning, A bonnet and feathers to death. But hark!-I've a part in "The Stranger,”There's the Prompter's detestable call! Come, Clarence-our Romeo and Ranger— We want you at Fustian Hall! |