St. Stephen's is a stage,And half the opposition are but players:For clap-traps, and deceptions, and effects,Fill up their thoughts throughout their many parts,Their acts being sev'n. At first the Demagogue,Railing and mouthing at the hustings' front:And then the cogging Candidate, with beer,Fibs, cringes, and cockades, giving to votersUnwillingly a pledge. And then the Member,Crackling like furnace, with a flaming storyMade on the country's fall. Then he turns Courtier,Full of smooth words, and secret as a midwife,Pleas'd with all rulers, zealous for the church,Seeking the useful fame of orthodoxy,Ev'n from theCanon'smouth. And then a Secretary,In fair white waistcoat, with boil'd chicken lin'd,With placid smile, and speech of ready answer,Lib'ral of promises and army contracts,And so he rules the state. The sixth act brings himTo be a snug retired old baronet,With ribband red on breast, and star on side:His early zeal for change a world too hotFor his cool age: and his big eloquence,Turning to gentler sounds, obedient pipes—And we must pay the piper. Scene the last,That ends this comfortable history,Is a fat pension and a pompous peerage,With cash, with coronet—with all but conscience.
St. Stephen's is a stage,And half the opposition are but players:For clap-traps, and deceptions, and effects,Fill up their thoughts throughout their many parts,Their acts being sev'n. At first the Demagogue,Railing and mouthing at the hustings' front:And then the cogging Candidate, with beer,Fibs, cringes, and cockades, giving to votersUnwillingly a pledge. And then the Member,Crackling like furnace, with a flaming storyMade on the country's fall. Then he turns Courtier,Full of smooth words, and secret as a midwife,Pleas'd with all rulers, zealous for the church,Seeking the useful fame of orthodoxy,Ev'n from theCanon'smouth. And then a Secretary,In fair white waistcoat, with boil'd chicken lin'd,With placid smile, and speech of ready answer,Lib'ral of promises and army contracts,And so he rules the state. The sixth act brings himTo be a snug retired old baronet,With ribband red on breast, and star on side:His early zeal for change a world too hotFor his cool age: and his big eloquence,Turning to gentler sounds, obedient pipes—And we must pay the piper. Scene the last,That ends this comfortable history,Is a fat pension and a pompous peerage,With cash, with coronet—with all but conscience.
St. Stephen's is a stage,And half the opposition are but players:For clap-traps, and deceptions, and effects,Fill up their thoughts throughout their many parts,Their acts being sev'n. At first the Demagogue,Railing and mouthing at the hustings' front:And then the cogging Candidate, with beer,Fibs, cringes, and cockades, giving to votersUnwillingly a pledge. And then the Member,Crackling like furnace, with a flaming storyMade on the country's fall. Then he turns Courtier,Full of smooth words, and secret as a midwife,Pleas'd with all rulers, zealous for the church,Seeking the useful fame of orthodoxy,Ev'n from theCanon'smouth. And then a Secretary,In fair white waistcoat, with boil'd chicken lin'd,With placid smile, and speech of ready answer,Lib'ral of promises and army contracts,And so he rules the state. The sixth act brings himTo be a snug retired old baronet,With ribband red on breast, and star on side:His early zeal for change a world too hotFor his cool age: and his big eloquence,Turning to gentler sounds, obedient pipes—And we must pay the piper. Scene the last,That ends this comfortable history,Is a fat pension and a pompous peerage,With cash, with coronet—with all but conscience.
St. Stephen's is a stage,
And half the opposition are but players:
For clap-traps, and deceptions, and effects,
Fill up their thoughts throughout their many parts,
Their acts being sev'n. At first the Demagogue,
Railing and mouthing at the hustings' front:
And then the cogging Candidate, with beer,
Fibs, cringes, and cockades, giving to voters
Unwillingly a pledge. And then the Member,
Crackling like furnace, with a flaming story
Made on the country's fall. Then he turns Courtier,
Full of smooth words, and secret as a midwife,
Pleas'd with all rulers, zealous for the church,
Seeking the useful fame of orthodoxy,
Ev'n from theCanon'smouth. And then a Secretary,
In fair white waistcoat, with boil'd chicken lin'd,
With placid smile, and speech of ready answer,
Lib'ral of promises and army contracts,
And so he rules the state. The sixth act brings him
To be a snug retired old baronet,
With ribband red on breast, and star on side:
His early zeal for change a world too hot
For his cool age: and his big eloquence,
Turning to gentler sounds, obedient pipes—
And we must pay the piper. Scene the last,
That ends this comfortable history,
Is a fat pension and a pompous peerage,
With cash, with coronet—with all but conscience.
Our parodies are ended. These our authors,As we foretold you, were all Spirits, andAre melted into air, into thin air.And, like the baseless fabric of these verses,The Critic's puff, the Trade's advertisement,The Patron's promise, and the World's applause,—Yea, all the hopes of poets,—shall dissolve,And, like this unsubstantial fable fated,Leave not a groat behind!
Our parodies are ended. These our authors,As we foretold you, were all Spirits, andAre melted into air, into thin air.And, like the baseless fabric of these verses,The Critic's puff, the Trade's advertisement,The Patron's promise, and the World's applause,—Yea, all the hopes of poets,—shall dissolve,And, like this unsubstantial fable fated,Leave not a groat behind!
Our parodies are ended. These our authors,As we foretold you, were all Spirits, andAre melted into air, into thin air.And, like the baseless fabric of these verses,The Critic's puff, the Trade's advertisement,The Patron's promise, and the World's applause,—Yea, all the hopes of poets,—shall dissolve,And, like this unsubstantial fable fated,Leave not a groat behind!
Our parodies are ended. These our authors,
As we foretold you, were all Spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air.
And, like the baseless fabric of these verses,
The Critic's puff, the Trade's advertisement,
The Patron's promise, and the World's applause,—
Yea, all the hopes of poets,—shall dissolve,
And, like this unsubstantial fable fated,
Leave not a groat behind!
Hence, loath'd vulgarity,Of ignorance and native dullness bred,In low unwholesome shed,'Mongst thieves and drabs, and street-sweeps asking charity:Find some suburban haunt,Where the spruce 'prentice treats his flashy mate,And smoking cits debate:Or at a dowdy rout, or ticket-ball,Giv'n at Freemasons' Hall,With tawdry clothes and liveries ever flaunt.But come, thou nymph of slender waist,Known early by the name of Taste,
Hence, loath'd vulgarity,Of ignorance and native dullness bred,In low unwholesome shed,'Mongst thieves and drabs, and street-sweeps asking charity:Find some suburban haunt,Where the spruce 'prentice treats his flashy mate,And smoking cits debate:Or at a dowdy rout, or ticket-ball,Giv'n at Freemasons' Hall,With tawdry clothes and liveries ever flaunt.But come, thou nymph of slender waist,Known early by the name of Taste,
Hence, loath'd vulgarity,Of ignorance and native dullness bred,In low unwholesome shed,'Mongst thieves and drabs, and street-sweeps asking charity:Find some suburban haunt,Where the spruce 'prentice treats his flashy mate,And smoking cits debate:Or at a dowdy rout, or ticket-ball,Giv'n at Freemasons' Hall,With tawdry clothes and liveries ever flaunt.But come, thou nymph of slender waist,Known early by the name of Taste,
Hence, loath'd vulgarity,
Of ignorance and native dullness bred,
In low unwholesome shed,
'Mongst thieves and drabs, and street-sweeps asking charity:
Find some suburban haunt,
Where the spruce 'prentice treats his flashy mate,
And smoking cits debate:
Or at a dowdy rout, or ticket-ball,
Giv'n at Freemasons' Hall,
With tawdry clothes and liveries ever flaunt.
But come, thou nymph of slender waist,
Known early by the name of Taste,
* * * * *
Haste thee, nymph, and bring with theeSteed, and light-hung Tilbury,Undiscoverable rouge,Polish'd boots, and neckcloth huge,(Such as might deck a Dandy's cheek,And draw the gazers for a week.)Mackintosh's racy phrase,And wit, that peerless Ward might praise.Come, and let your steps be bentWith a lively measurement,And bring the proper airs and graces,That make their way in certain places:And, if I give thee honour due,Fashion, enroll me with the few,With Spencer, Sydney Smith, and theeIn a select society:To ride when many a lady fair inHer morning veil begins her airing,And with the nurse and children stow'dDrives down the Park, or Chelsea road:Then to stop in spite of sorrow,And through the window bid good-morrowOf vis-à-vis, or barouchette,Or half-open landaulet:While little Burke, with lively din,Scatters his stock of trifles thin;And at the Bridge, or Grosvenor Gate,Briskly bids his horses wait;Oft listening how the CatalaniRouses at night th' applauding many,In some opera of Mozart,Winning the eye, the ear, the heart.Then in the round room not unseen,Attending dames of noble mien,Right to the door in Market-lane,Where chairmen range their jostling train,And footmen stand with torch alight,In their thousand liveries dight,While the doorkeeper on the stairs,Bawls for the Marchionesses' chairsAnd young dragoons enjoy the crowd,And dowagers inveigh aloud,And lovers write a hasty scrawlUpon the ticket of a shawl.Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,As the circling crowd it measures;Virgins old with tresses grey,That in corkscrew curls do stray;Ladies, on whose softer breastGallants receive a hope of rest;Little feet with sandals tied,Shallow heads and shoulders wide;Necks and throats of lovely form,Bosom'd high in tippet warm,Where some beauty spreads her snare,The envy of surrounding fair.Hard by, the Op'ra being past,To some small supper let me haste,Where ladies, wits, and poets met,Are at their various banquet set,Of fifty little tempting messes,Which the neat-handed Gunter dresses:And there with satisfaction seeThe pullet and the early pea,Or, if the sultry dog-star reign,The melon ice and cool champagne.Sometimes, to a late delightArgyll advertisements invite,Where the wreathèd waltz goes round,Or English tunes more briskly sound,To twice a hundred feet or more,Dancing on the chalky floor:And wise mamma, well pleased to seeHer daughter paired with high degree,Stays till the daylight glares amain:Then in the carriage home again,With stories told, of many a bow,And civil speech from so and so.She was ask'd to dance, she said,But scarcely down the middle led,Because his Lordship only thoughtHow soonest to find out a spot,Where, seated by her side, unheard,He whisper'd many a pretty word,Such as no poet could excel!Then, having paid his court so well,Most manifestly meaning marriage,He fetch'd the shawls and call'd the carriage,Handed her from the crowded doorAnd watch'd till she was seen no more.Thus done the tales, the flutt'ring fairGo up to bed, and curl their hair.Country houses please me too,And the jocund Christmas crew,Where chiefs of adverse politicsAwhile in social circle mix,And tenants come, whose county franchiseConnects them with the higher branches,Since all the great alike contendFor votes, on which they all depend.Let Affability be there,With cordial hand and friendly air,And private play and glittering fête,To make the rustic gentry prate,—Such joys as fill young ladies' heads,Who judge from books of masquerades.Then will I to St. Stephen's stray,If aught be moved by Castlereagh,Or matchless Canning mean to rollHis thunders o'er the subject soul.And sometimes, to divert my cares,Give me some flirt, with joyous airs,Married a girl, a widow now,Such as will hear each playful vow,Too young to lay upon the shelf:Meaning—as little as myself:—Still speaking, singing, walking, running,With wanton heed and giddy cunning.With a good mien to testifyHer converse with good company,That Chesterfield might lift his eyesFrom the dark Tartarus where he lies,Beholding, in her air and gait,Graces that almost compensateThe blunders of his awkward son,And half the harm his book has done.These delights if thou canst give,Fashion, with thee I wish to live.
Haste thee, nymph, and bring with theeSteed, and light-hung Tilbury,Undiscoverable rouge,Polish'd boots, and neckcloth huge,(Such as might deck a Dandy's cheek,And draw the gazers for a week.)Mackintosh's racy phrase,And wit, that peerless Ward might praise.Come, and let your steps be bentWith a lively measurement,And bring the proper airs and graces,That make their way in certain places:And, if I give thee honour due,Fashion, enroll me with the few,With Spencer, Sydney Smith, and theeIn a select society:To ride when many a lady fair inHer morning veil begins her airing,And with the nurse and children stow'dDrives down the Park, or Chelsea road:Then to stop in spite of sorrow,And through the window bid good-morrowOf vis-à-vis, or barouchette,Or half-open landaulet:While little Burke, with lively din,Scatters his stock of trifles thin;And at the Bridge, or Grosvenor Gate,Briskly bids his horses wait;Oft listening how the CatalaniRouses at night th' applauding many,In some opera of Mozart,Winning the eye, the ear, the heart.Then in the round room not unseen,Attending dames of noble mien,Right to the door in Market-lane,Where chairmen range their jostling train,And footmen stand with torch alight,In their thousand liveries dight,While the doorkeeper on the stairs,Bawls for the Marchionesses' chairsAnd young dragoons enjoy the crowd,And dowagers inveigh aloud,And lovers write a hasty scrawlUpon the ticket of a shawl.Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,As the circling crowd it measures;Virgins old with tresses grey,That in corkscrew curls do stray;Ladies, on whose softer breastGallants receive a hope of rest;Little feet with sandals tied,Shallow heads and shoulders wide;Necks and throats of lovely form,Bosom'd high in tippet warm,Where some beauty spreads her snare,The envy of surrounding fair.Hard by, the Op'ra being past,To some small supper let me haste,Where ladies, wits, and poets met,Are at their various banquet set,Of fifty little tempting messes,Which the neat-handed Gunter dresses:And there with satisfaction seeThe pullet and the early pea,Or, if the sultry dog-star reign,The melon ice and cool champagne.Sometimes, to a late delightArgyll advertisements invite,Where the wreathèd waltz goes round,Or English tunes more briskly sound,To twice a hundred feet or more,Dancing on the chalky floor:And wise mamma, well pleased to seeHer daughter paired with high degree,Stays till the daylight glares amain:Then in the carriage home again,With stories told, of many a bow,And civil speech from so and so.She was ask'd to dance, she said,But scarcely down the middle led,Because his Lordship only thoughtHow soonest to find out a spot,Where, seated by her side, unheard,He whisper'd many a pretty word,Such as no poet could excel!Then, having paid his court so well,Most manifestly meaning marriage,He fetch'd the shawls and call'd the carriage,Handed her from the crowded doorAnd watch'd till she was seen no more.Thus done the tales, the flutt'ring fairGo up to bed, and curl their hair.Country houses please me too,And the jocund Christmas crew,Where chiefs of adverse politicsAwhile in social circle mix,And tenants come, whose county franchiseConnects them with the higher branches,Since all the great alike contendFor votes, on which they all depend.Let Affability be there,With cordial hand and friendly air,And private play and glittering fête,To make the rustic gentry prate,—Such joys as fill young ladies' heads,Who judge from books of masquerades.Then will I to St. Stephen's stray,If aught be moved by Castlereagh,Or matchless Canning mean to rollHis thunders o'er the subject soul.And sometimes, to divert my cares,Give me some flirt, with joyous airs,Married a girl, a widow now,Such as will hear each playful vow,Too young to lay upon the shelf:Meaning—as little as myself:—Still speaking, singing, walking, running,With wanton heed and giddy cunning.With a good mien to testifyHer converse with good company,That Chesterfield might lift his eyesFrom the dark Tartarus where he lies,Beholding, in her air and gait,Graces that almost compensateThe blunders of his awkward son,And half the harm his book has done.These delights if thou canst give,Fashion, with thee I wish to live.
Haste thee, nymph, and bring with theeSteed, and light-hung Tilbury,Undiscoverable rouge,Polish'd boots, and neckcloth huge,(Such as might deck a Dandy's cheek,And draw the gazers for a week.)Mackintosh's racy phrase,And wit, that peerless Ward might praise.Come, and let your steps be bentWith a lively measurement,And bring the proper airs and graces,That make their way in certain places:And, if I give thee honour due,Fashion, enroll me with the few,With Spencer, Sydney Smith, and theeIn a select society:To ride when many a lady fair inHer morning veil begins her airing,And with the nurse and children stow'dDrives down the Park, or Chelsea road:Then to stop in spite of sorrow,And through the window bid good-morrowOf vis-à-vis, or barouchette,Or half-open landaulet:While little Burke, with lively din,Scatters his stock of trifles thin;And at the Bridge, or Grosvenor Gate,Briskly bids his horses wait;Oft listening how the CatalaniRouses at night th' applauding many,In some opera of Mozart,Winning the eye, the ear, the heart.Then in the round room not unseen,Attending dames of noble mien,Right to the door in Market-lane,Where chairmen range their jostling train,And footmen stand with torch alight,In their thousand liveries dight,While the doorkeeper on the stairs,Bawls for the Marchionesses' chairsAnd young dragoons enjoy the crowd,And dowagers inveigh aloud,And lovers write a hasty scrawlUpon the ticket of a shawl.Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,As the circling crowd it measures;Virgins old with tresses grey,That in corkscrew curls do stray;Ladies, on whose softer breastGallants receive a hope of rest;Little feet with sandals tied,Shallow heads and shoulders wide;Necks and throats of lovely form,Bosom'd high in tippet warm,Where some beauty spreads her snare,The envy of surrounding fair.Hard by, the Op'ra being past,To some small supper let me haste,Where ladies, wits, and poets met,Are at their various banquet set,Of fifty little tempting messes,Which the neat-handed Gunter dresses:And there with satisfaction seeThe pullet and the early pea,Or, if the sultry dog-star reign,The melon ice and cool champagne.Sometimes, to a late delightArgyll advertisements invite,Where the wreathèd waltz goes round,Or English tunes more briskly sound,To twice a hundred feet or more,Dancing on the chalky floor:And wise mamma, well pleased to seeHer daughter paired with high degree,Stays till the daylight glares amain:Then in the carriage home again,With stories told, of many a bow,And civil speech from so and so.She was ask'd to dance, she said,But scarcely down the middle led,Because his Lordship only thoughtHow soonest to find out a spot,Where, seated by her side, unheard,He whisper'd many a pretty word,Such as no poet could excel!Then, having paid his court so well,Most manifestly meaning marriage,He fetch'd the shawls and call'd the carriage,Handed her from the crowded doorAnd watch'd till she was seen no more.Thus done the tales, the flutt'ring fairGo up to bed, and curl their hair.Country houses please me too,And the jocund Christmas crew,Where chiefs of adverse politicsAwhile in social circle mix,And tenants come, whose county franchiseConnects them with the higher branches,Since all the great alike contendFor votes, on which they all depend.Let Affability be there,With cordial hand and friendly air,And private play and glittering fête,To make the rustic gentry prate,—Such joys as fill young ladies' heads,Who judge from books of masquerades.Then will I to St. Stephen's stray,If aught be moved by Castlereagh,Or matchless Canning mean to rollHis thunders o'er the subject soul.And sometimes, to divert my cares,Give me some flirt, with joyous airs,Married a girl, a widow now,Such as will hear each playful vow,Too young to lay upon the shelf:Meaning—as little as myself:—Still speaking, singing, walking, running,With wanton heed and giddy cunning.With a good mien to testifyHer converse with good company,That Chesterfield might lift his eyesFrom the dark Tartarus where he lies,Beholding, in her air and gait,Graces that almost compensateThe blunders of his awkward son,And half the harm his book has done.These delights if thou canst give,Fashion, with thee I wish to live.
Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee
Steed, and light-hung Tilbury,
Undiscoverable rouge,
Polish'd boots, and neckcloth huge,
(Such as might deck a Dandy's cheek,
And draw the gazers for a week.)
Mackintosh's racy phrase,
And wit, that peerless Ward might praise.
Come, and let your steps be bent
With a lively measurement,
And bring the proper airs and graces,
That make their way in certain places:
And, if I give thee honour due,
Fashion, enroll me with the few,
With Spencer, Sydney Smith, and thee
In a select society:
To ride when many a lady fair in
Her morning veil begins her airing,
And with the nurse and children stow'd
Drives down the Park, or Chelsea road:
Then to stop in spite of sorrow,
And through the window bid good-morrow
Of vis-à-vis, or barouchette,
Or half-open landaulet:
While little Burke, with lively din,
Scatters his stock of trifles thin;
And at the Bridge, or Grosvenor Gate,
Briskly bids his horses wait;
Oft listening how the Catalani
Rouses at night th' applauding many,
In some opera of Mozart,
Winning the eye, the ear, the heart.
Then in the round room not unseen,
Attending dames of noble mien,
Right to the door in Market-lane,
Where chairmen range their jostling train,
And footmen stand with torch alight,
In their thousand liveries dight,
While the doorkeeper on the stairs,
Bawls for the Marchionesses' chairs
And young dragoons enjoy the crowd,
And dowagers inveigh aloud,
And lovers write a hasty scrawl
Upon the ticket of a shawl.
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,
As the circling crowd it measures;
Virgins old with tresses grey,
That in corkscrew curls do stray;
Ladies, on whose softer breast
Gallants receive a hope of rest;
Little feet with sandals tied,
Shallow heads and shoulders wide;
Necks and throats of lovely form,
Bosom'd high in tippet warm,
Where some beauty spreads her snare,
The envy of surrounding fair.
Hard by, the Op'ra being past,
To some small supper let me haste,
Where ladies, wits, and poets met,
Are at their various banquet set,
Of fifty little tempting messes,
Which the neat-handed Gunter dresses:
And there with satisfaction see
The pullet and the early pea,
Or, if the sultry dog-star reign,
The melon ice and cool champagne.
Sometimes, to a late delight
Argyll advertisements invite,
Where the wreathèd waltz goes round,
Or English tunes more briskly sound,
To twice a hundred feet or more,
Dancing on the chalky floor:
And wise mamma, well pleased to see
Her daughter paired with high degree,
Stays till the daylight glares amain:
Then in the carriage home again,
With stories told, of many a bow,
And civil speech from so and so.
She was ask'd to dance, she said,
But scarcely down the middle led,
Because his Lordship only thought
How soonest to find out a spot,
Where, seated by her side, unheard,
He whisper'd many a pretty word,
Such as no poet could excel!
Then, having paid his court so well,
Most manifestly meaning marriage,
He fetch'd the shawls and call'd the carriage,
Handed her from the crowded door
And watch'd till she was seen no more.
Thus done the tales, the flutt'ring fair
Go up to bed, and curl their hair.
Country houses please me too,
And the jocund Christmas crew,
Where chiefs of adverse politics
Awhile in social circle mix,
And tenants come, whose county franchise
Connects them with the higher branches,
Since all the great alike contend
For votes, on which they all depend.
Let Affability be there,
With cordial hand and friendly air,
And private play and glittering fête,
To make the rustic gentry prate,—
Such joys as fill young ladies' heads,
Who judge from books of masquerades.
Then will I to St. Stephen's stray,
If aught be moved by Castlereagh,
Or matchless Canning mean to roll
His thunders o'er the subject soul.
And sometimes, to divert my cares,
Give me some flirt, with joyous airs,
Married a girl, a widow now,
Such as will hear each playful vow,
Too young to lay upon the shelf:
Meaning—as little as myself:—
Still speaking, singing, walking, running,
With wanton heed and giddy cunning.
With a good mien to testify
Her converse with good company,
That Chesterfield might lift his eyes
From the dark Tartarus where he lies,
Beholding, in her air and gait,
Graces that almost compensate
The blunders of his awkward son,
And half the harm his book has done.
These delights if thou canst give,
Fashion, with thee I wish to live.
Supposed to be written by the Editor of the—— Newspaper, during his Solitary Abode in—— Prison.
I am tenant of nine feet by four,My title no lawyer denies,From the ceiling quite down to the floorI am lord of the spiders and flies.Oh, Justice! how awkward it isTo be gripped by thy terrible squad!I did but indulge in aquiz,And theQuorumhave sent me toquod.Dear scandal is out of my reach,I must pass my dull mornings alone,Never hear Mr. Br——m make a speech,Nor get audience for one of my own!The people, provokingly quiet,My fate with indifference see:They are so unaccustomed to riot,Their tameness is shocking to me.Personality, libel, and lie,Ye supports of our Jacobin train,If I had but the courage to try,How soon I would sport you again!My ranklings I then might assuageBy renewing my efforts to vex,By profaning the rev'rence of age,And attacking the weakness of sex.A libel! what treasure untoldResides in that dear little word,More rich than the silver and goldWhich the Bank is reported to hoard!But the Bench have no bowels for pity,No stomach for high-season'd leaven,And, though we be never so witty,They trim us when judgement is given.O ye, who were present in Court,In pity convey to me hereSome well-manufactured reportOf a lady, a prince, or a peer.Do my writings continue to tell?Does the public attend to my lines?O say that my Newspapers sell,Though the money must go for my fines!How fleet is the growth of a fib!The astonishing speed of its flightOutstrips the less mischievous squibLet off on a holiday night.Then who would not vamp up a fudge,When he knows how it helps off his papers;Were it not—that the thought of the judgeOvercasts him, and gives him the vapours?But Cobbett has got his discharge—The beastis let loose from his cover:Like him I shall yet be at large,When a couple of years shall be over:For law must our liberty give,ThoughLawfor a while may retard it:Even I shall obtain it, who liveBy sapping the bulwarks that guard it.
I am tenant of nine feet by four,My title no lawyer denies,From the ceiling quite down to the floorI am lord of the spiders and flies.Oh, Justice! how awkward it isTo be gripped by thy terrible squad!I did but indulge in aquiz,And theQuorumhave sent me toquod.Dear scandal is out of my reach,I must pass my dull mornings alone,Never hear Mr. Br——m make a speech,Nor get audience for one of my own!The people, provokingly quiet,My fate with indifference see:They are so unaccustomed to riot,Their tameness is shocking to me.Personality, libel, and lie,Ye supports of our Jacobin train,If I had but the courage to try,How soon I would sport you again!My ranklings I then might assuageBy renewing my efforts to vex,By profaning the rev'rence of age,And attacking the weakness of sex.A libel! what treasure untoldResides in that dear little word,More rich than the silver and goldWhich the Bank is reported to hoard!But the Bench have no bowels for pity,No stomach for high-season'd leaven,And, though we be never so witty,They trim us when judgement is given.O ye, who were present in Court,In pity convey to me hereSome well-manufactured reportOf a lady, a prince, or a peer.Do my writings continue to tell?Does the public attend to my lines?O say that my Newspapers sell,Though the money must go for my fines!How fleet is the growth of a fib!The astonishing speed of its flightOutstrips the less mischievous squibLet off on a holiday night.Then who would not vamp up a fudge,When he knows how it helps off his papers;Were it not—that the thought of the judgeOvercasts him, and gives him the vapours?But Cobbett has got his discharge—The beastis let loose from his cover:Like him I shall yet be at large,When a couple of years shall be over:For law must our liberty give,ThoughLawfor a while may retard it:Even I shall obtain it, who liveBy sapping the bulwarks that guard it.
I am tenant of nine feet by four,My title no lawyer denies,From the ceiling quite down to the floorI am lord of the spiders and flies.
I am tenant of nine feet by four,
My title no lawyer denies,
From the ceiling quite down to the floor
I am lord of the spiders and flies.
Oh, Justice! how awkward it isTo be gripped by thy terrible squad!I did but indulge in aquiz,And theQuorumhave sent me toquod.
Oh, Justice! how awkward it is
To be gripped by thy terrible squad!
I did but indulge in aquiz,
And theQuorumhave sent me toquod.
Dear scandal is out of my reach,I must pass my dull mornings alone,Never hear Mr. Br——m make a speech,Nor get audience for one of my own!
Dear scandal is out of my reach,
I must pass my dull mornings alone,
Never hear Mr. Br——m make a speech,
Nor get audience for one of my own!
The people, provokingly quiet,My fate with indifference see:They are so unaccustomed to riot,Their tameness is shocking to me.
The people, provokingly quiet,
My fate with indifference see:
They are so unaccustomed to riot,
Their tameness is shocking to me.
Personality, libel, and lie,Ye supports of our Jacobin train,If I had but the courage to try,How soon I would sport you again!
Personality, libel, and lie,
Ye supports of our Jacobin train,
If I had but the courage to try,
How soon I would sport you again!
My ranklings I then might assuageBy renewing my efforts to vex,By profaning the rev'rence of age,And attacking the weakness of sex.
My ranklings I then might assuage
By renewing my efforts to vex,
By profaning the rev'rence of age,
And attacking the weakness of sex.
A libel! what treasure untoldResides in that dear little word,More rich than the silver and goldWhich the Bank is reported to hoard!
A libel! what treasure untold
Resides in that dear little word,
More rich than the silver and gold
Which the Bank is reported to hoard!
But the Bench have no bowels for pity,No stomach for high-season'd leaven,And, though we be never so witty,They trim us when judgement is given.
But the Bench have no bowels for pity,
No stomach for high-season'd leaven,
And, though we be never so witty,
They trim us when judgement is given.
O ye, who were present in Court,In pity convey to me hereSome well-manufactured reportOf a lady, a prince, or a peer.
O ye, who were present in Court,
In pity convey to me here
Some well-manufactured report
Of a lady, a prince, or a peer.
Do my writings continue to tell?Does the public attend to my lines?O say that my Newspapers sell,Though the money must go for my fines!
Do my writings continue to tell?
Does the public attend to my lines?
O say that my Newspapers sell,
Though the money must go for my fines!
How fleet is the growth of a fib!The astonishing speed of its flightOutstrips the less mischievous squibLet off on a holiday night.
How fleet is the growth of a fib!
The astonishing speed of its flight
Outstrips the less mischievous squib
Let off on a holiday night.
Then who would not vamp up a fudge,When he knows how it helps off his papers;Were it not—that the thought of the judgeOvercasts him, and gives him the vapours?
Then who would not vamp up a fudge,
When he knows how it helps off his papers;
Were it not—that the thought of the judge
Overcasts him, and gives him the vapours?
But Cobbett has got his discharge—The beastis let loose from his cover:Like him I shall yet be at large,When a couple of years shall be over:
But Cobbett has got his discharge—
The beastis let loose from his cover:
Like him I shall yet be at large,
When a couple of years shall be over:
For law must our liberty give,ThoughLawfor a while may retard it:Even I shall obtain it, who liveBy sapping the bulwarks that guard it.
For law must our liberty give,
ThoughLawfor a while may retard it:
Even I shall obtain it, who live
By sapping the bulwarks that guard it.