To Thomas Moore
OH you, who in all names can tickle the town,Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown,--For hang me if I know of which you may most brag,Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post Bag;
But now to my letter--to yours 'tis an answer--To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir,All ready and dressed for proceeding to spunge on(According to compact) the wit in the dungeon--Pray Phoebus at length our political maliceMay not get us lodgings within the same palace!I suppose that to-night you're engaged with some codgers,And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers;And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got,Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote;But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra,And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra.
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.