50
A thousand are prudes who for CHARITY write,
And fill up their sheets with spleen, envy, and spite[,]
One million are bards, who to Heaven aspire,
And stuff their works full of bombast, rant, and fire,
T’other million are wags who in Grubstreet attend, 55
And just like a cobbler the old writings mend,
The twenty are those who for pulpits indite,
And pore over sermons all Saturday night. 
And now my good friends—­who come after I mean,
As I ne’er wore a cassock, or dined with a dean. 60
Or like cobblers at mending I never did try,
Nor with poets in lyrics attempted to vie;
As for prudes these good souls I both hate and detest,
So here I believe the matter must rest.—­
I’ve heard your complaint—­my answer I’ve made, 65
And since to your calls all the tribute I’ve paid,
Adieu my good friend; pray never despair,
But grammar and sense and everything dare,
Attempt but to write dashing, easy, and free,
Then take out your grammar and pay him his fee, 70
Be not a coward, shrink not to a tense,
But read it all over and make it out sense. 
What a tiresome girl!—­pray soon make an end,
Else my limited patience you’ll quickly expend. 
Well adieu, I no longer your patience will try—­ 75
So swift to the post now the letter shall fly.

JANUARY, 1810.

2.

TO MISS —­ —­ [HARRIET GROVE] FROM MISS —­ —­ [ELIZABETH SHELLEY].

For your letter, dear —­ [Hattie], accept my best thanks,
Rendered long and amusing by virtue of franks,
Though concise they would please, yet the longer the better,
The more news that’s crammed in, more amusing the letter,
All excuses of etiquette nonsense I hate, 5
Which only are fit for the tardy and late,
As when converse grows flat, of the weather they talk,
How fair the sun shines—­a fine day for a walk,
Then to politics turn, of Burdett’s reformation,
One declares it would hurt, t’other better the nation, 10
Will ministers keep? sure they’ve acted quite wrong,
The burden this is of each morning-call song. 
So —­ is going to —­ you say,
I hope that success her great efforts will pay [—­]
That [the Colonel] will see her, be dazzled outright, 15
And declare he can’t bear to be out of her sight. 
Write flaming epistles with love’s pointed dart,
Whose sharp little arrow struck right on his heart,
Scold poor innocent Cupid for mischievous ways,
He knows not how much to laud forth her praise, 20
That he neither eats, drinks or sleeps for her sake,
And hopes her hard heart some compassion will take,
A refusal would kill him, so desperate his flame,
But he fears, for he knows she is not common game,