TALLEYRAND.

Why I think I’ve a snug little project in view: 
I have felt for you long, and have ransack’d my brain
To relieve you from so much embarrassing pain. 
To-morrow our principal tools shall repair
To this spot, to implore you to stay where you are: 
Little Jancourt, you know, has a tear at command,
The rest shall have muslin-wrapp’d onions in hand;
An expedient which you, my good Consul, must try,
For a drop never yet wag observ’d in your eye! 
And therefore I think ’twould be better for you
The largest to pluck from the beds of St Cloud. 
When these fellows appear, they shall fall at your feet,
Portalis shall pen a few words to repeat;
He shall state ’tis the nation’s imperial will
That you do not your dangerous promise fulfil;
But snug in this closet put all into motion,
Nor hazard your life with these sons of the ocean.
You shall say, “I have sworn by my glory to go;” }
They shall all of them blubber out “No, no, no, no!}
It must not, thou world’s second saviour! be so. }
If you go, mighty Chieftain! and should not escape,
All Gallia, the world, will be cover’d with crape[A]! 
Oh! stay where you are; on our knees we implore!”
Then, apparently chok’d, they shall utter no more. 
When thrice sixty seconds have nearly expir’d
(Now mind, my dear Consul, and do as desir’d),
You must mimic some hero you’ve seen at the play,
Of the tragical cast, when his soul melts away
(And, without any compliment ’twixt you and I,
You re’lly have talents and pow’rs very high,
To make the most striking tragedian alive). 
But now to the point.  You must tenderly strive
To raise these sweet prostrates; then, heaving a sigh,
And wiping the drops that shall stand in each eye,
Like one sorely cross’d, you shall, weeping, exclaim,
“Oh! why do you tear me from conquest and fame? 
But still, if the nation commands me, ’tis fit”
(Your breast thumping hard) “that its Chief should submit.” 
Then you see, if the army of England should sail,
And the schemes of this cursed armada should fail,
In the Moniteur’s faithful official page,
I can humbug the people, and soften their rage;
I will tell them, that, had but the nation permitted
Her Chief to have gone, we had ne’er been outwitted;
That merely the terrible glance of his eye
Would have made all those shop-keeping islanders fly;
This will quiet our friends, and, to harass our foes,
A second invasion I’ll slyly propose,
In which, in the van, Buonaparte shall pour
His vengeance divine on that mercantile shore. 
Not that I, my dear Premier! conceive ’twould be right
To renew with these cursed tough fellows the fight;
But our people ’twill please, until some new occasion
Shall call from this project the eye of the nation.

FIRST CONSUL.

It will do, it will do, my dear Tally! thy brain Has my terrors remov’d, and “a man I’m again.”  I will rise with the dawn, for this scene to prepare; Denon, with his crayons, so swift shall be there; The Parisians the subject with rapture will trace In my Nosegay[B]; I’ll hang it up full in their face.  I embrace thee, my dear little Tal! with delight; Ca ira!  Ca ira!  Thy hand, and good night.