Monsieur Tonson. Our sportive wight his usual visit paid, And the next night came forth a prattling maid, Whose tongue, indeed, than any Jack went faster; Anxious, she strove his errand to enquire, He said 'twas vain her pretty tongue to tire, He should not stir till he had seen her master. The damsel then began, in doleful state; But first had much of deep concern to say. Thus urged, she went the snoring man to call, Ere she could rouse the torpid lump of clay. When King attack'd him in his usual way. The Frenchman now perceived 'twas all in vain And straight in rage began his crest to rear: "Sare, vat the devil make you treat me so? Sare, I inform you, sare, three nights ago, Got tam-I swear, no Monsieur Tonson here!" True as the night, King went, and heard a strife Monsieur Tonson. Our hero, with the firmness of a rock, Utt'ring the old inquiry, calmly stood- The name of Thompson raised the storm so high, With "Well, I'll call when you're in gentler mood." In short, our hero, with the same intent, Full many a night to plague the Frenchman went— They threw out water; for the watch they call; It happen'd that our wag, about this time, To London, with impatient hope, he flies, He fain must stroll, the well-known haunt to trace. "Ah! here's the scene of frequent mirth," he said, old Frenchman, I suppose, is dead. Egad, I'll knock, and see who holds his place." 66 My poor With rapid strokes he makes the mansion roar, Lo! who obeys the knocker's rattling peal? Capricious turn of sportive Fortune's wheel! Monsieur Tonson. Without one thought of the relentless foe, Just in his former trim he now appears; And King's detested voice, astonish'd, hears. As if some hideous spectre struck his sight, His face, indeed, bespoke a heart full sore- 66 THE LITERARY LADY. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. HAT motley cares Corilla's mind perplex, A letter'd gossip, and a household wit; A checker'd wreck of notable and wise, Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass, The Literary Lady. Unfinish'd, here an epigram is laid, And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid. There new-born plays foretaste the town's applause, There dormant patterns pine for future gauze. A moral essay now is all her care, A satire next; and then, a bill of fare. A scene she now projects, and now a dish; Here Act the First, and here, Remove with Fish. That soberly casts up a bill for coals; Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks, And tears, and threads, and bowls, and thimbles mix. HO is it that sits in the kitchen, and weeps, 'Tis Betty; who saw the false tailor, Bob Scott, |