I write the finest things that ever
Made duchess fond, or marquiss clever—­
(Although I’d rather half turn Turk,
The thing’s such monstrous up-hill work). 
My ton’s the very cream of fashion,
My passion the sublimest passion,
My rage satanic, love the same,
Of all blue flames, the bluest flame—­
My piety perpetual matins,
A quaker propp’d on double pattens;
My lovely girls the most precocious,
My beaus delightfully atrocious! 
Yet scarcely have I play’d my card,
When up comes politician Ward,
Before my face he trumps my trump,
Sweeps off my honours in the lump,
And never asking my permission,
Talks sermons to the third edition.

Or Boulogne, Highway Byeway, Grattan,
(The Pyrenees begin to flatten,
A feast denied to storm and shower,
The pen’s the wonder-working power);
Or Smith, the master of “Addresses,”
Carves history out in modern messes:—­
Tells how gay Charles cook’d up his collops,
How fleeced his friends, how paid his trollops—­
How pledged his soul, and pawn’d his oath,
’Till none would give a straw for both;
And touching paupers for the Evil,
Touch’d England half way to the devil
Or Hook, picks up my favorite hits,
For when was friendship between wits? 
Or Lyster, doubly dandyfied,
Fidgets his donkey by my side;
Or Bulwer rambles back from Greece,
Woolgathering from the Golden fleece—­
Or forty volumes, piping hot,
Come blazing from volcano Scott;
When pens like their’s play all my game. 
The tasteless world must bear the blame.

I had a budget, full of fan,
But here again, I’m lost, undone! 
I’m so forestall’d—­that faith, I could
Half quarrel with—­my lively Hood: 
For odd it is, my “Oddities,”
Are even all the same with his;
Would Sherwood (him of Paternoster),
Assist my pilferings to foster,
I’d turn free-booter—­nay, I would
E’en play the part of robbing Hood—­
But brother Wits should never quarrel,
Nor try to “pluck each other’s laurel,”
And tho’ my income’s scarce enough
To find friend Petersham with snuff,
Here’s peace to all! and kind regards! 
And Brother Hood among the Bards.

So all, friends, countrymen, and lovers,
With one, or one and twenty covers,
Farewell to all;—­my glories past,
I pen my lay, my sweetest, last! 
Another Phoenix, build my nest
Of spices, Phoebus’ very best,
Concentrating in these gay pages,
Wit, worth the wit of all the stages;
Love, tender as the midnight talk,
In softest summer’s midnight walk,
With leave to all earth’s fools to spurn ’em,
Nay (if they first will buy) to burn ’em.

TO THE REVIEWERS.