A sort of-it's no more a drama is, In short, sir, what with one and t'other, I write in haste; excuse each blunder; The Quarterly-Ah, sir, if you The room's so full of wits and bards, Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and Wards And others, neither bards nor wits:- My humble tenement admits All persons in the dress of gent., A party dines with me to-day, They're at this moment in discussion On poor De Staël's late dissolution. Her book, they say, was in advance Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of France! But, to return, sir, to your play: JOHN MURRAY. EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY. (1) My dear Mr. Murray, You're in a damn'd hurry To set up this ultimate Canto; (2) But (if they don't rob us) You'll see Mr. Hobhouse Will bring it safe in his portmanteau. No doubt you do right to commend it; But as yet I have writ off The devil a bit of Our "Beppo:"-when copied, I'll send it. (1) [See antè, Vol. IV. p. 76.] (2) [The fourth Canto of " Childe Harold.”—E.] Then you've ***'s Tour, No great things, to be sure, You could hardly begin with a less work; For the pompous rascallion, Who don't speak Italian Nor French, must have scribbled by guesswork. You can make any loss up With "Spence" and his gossip, A work which must surely succeed; Then you've General Gordon, Who girded his sword on, To serve with a Muscovite master, And help him to polish A nation so owlish, They thought shaving their beards a disaster. For the man, poor and shrewd," With whom you'd conclude A compact without more delay, Perhaps some such pen is Still extant in Venice; But please, sir, to mention your pay. Venice, January 8. 1818. TO MR. MURRAY. (1) STRAHAN, Tonson, Lintot of the times, To thee, with hope and terror dumb, Upon thy table's baize so green My Murray? Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist, And Heaven forbid I should conclude My Murray! Venice, March 25. 1818. (1) [See Moore's Notices, antè, Vol. IV. p. 96.] TO THOMAS MOORE.(1) WHAT are you doing now, But the Carnival's coming, EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT. WITH death doom'd to grapple Beneath this cold slab, he Who lied in the Chapel (1) [See Vol. III. p. 319. antè.] |