I read a sheet of " Margret of Anjou;" (2) I turn'd a page of Scott's "Waterloo ;" Pooh! pooh! Ilook'd at Wordsworth's milk-white"Rylstone Doe;" Hillo! &c. &c. &c. TO MR. MURRAY. (3) To hook the reader, you, John Murray, Which won't be sold off in a hurry (At least, it has not been as yet); (1) ["I have been ill with a slow fever, which at last took to flying, and became as quick as need be. But, at length, after a week of half delirium, burning skin, thirst, hot headach, horrible pulsation, and no sleep, by the blessing of barley water, and refusing to see my physician, I recovered. It is an epidemic of the place. Here are some versicles, which I made one sleepless night."-B. Letters. Venice, March, 1817.] (2) [The" Missionary" was written by Mr. Bowles; "Ilderim" by Mr. Gally Knight; and "Margaret of Anjou" by Miss Holford.] (3) [See Moore's Notices, antè, Vol. III. p. 367.] And then, still further to bewilder 'em, Without remorse you set up "Ilderim;" So mind you don't get into debt, Because as how, if you should fail, These books would be but baddish bail. These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry, Which would be very treacherous—very, And get me into such a scrape! For, firstly, I should have to sally, All in my little boat, against a Galley; And, should I chance to slay the Assyrian wight, Have next to combat with the female knight. March 25. 1817. EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO DEAR Doctor, I have read your play, And drenches handkerchiefs like towels (1) [For some particulars relating to Dr. Polidori, and his tragedy, see antè, Vol. III. p. 275. "I never," says Lord Byron, "was much more disgusted with any human production than with the eternal nonsense, and tracasseries, and emptiness, and ill-humour, and vanity of this young person; but he has some talent, and is a man of honour, and has dispositions of amendment. Therefore use your interest for him, for he is improved and improvable. You want a civil and delicate declension' for the medical tragedy? Take it."- Lord B. to Mr. M. August 21. 1817.] With tears, that, in a flux of grief, To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses, scenery; I like your moral and machinery; That I despair of all demand. Or only watch my shopman's looks;- My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. There's Byron too, who once did better, Has sent me, folded in a letter, |