Epistle to Mr. Murray
MY dear Mr. Murray,You're in a damned hurryTo set up this ultimate Canto;But (if they don't rob us)You'll see Mr. HobhouseWill bring it safe in his portmanteau.
For the Journal you hint of,As ready to print off,No doubt you do right to commend it;But as yet I have writ offThe devil a bit ofOur "Beppo:"--when copied, I'll send it.
In the mean time you've "Galley"Whose verses all tally,Perhaps you may say he's a Ninny,But if you abashed areBecause of Alashtar,He'll piddle another Phrosine.
Then you've Sotheby's Tour,--No great things, to be sure,--You could hardly begin with a less work;For the pompous rascallion,Who don't speak ItalianNor French, must have scribbled by guess-work.
No doubt he's a rare manWithout knowing GermanTranslating his way up Parnassus,And now still absurderHe meditates MurderAs you'll see in the trash he calls Tasso's.
But you've others his bettersThe real men of lettersYour Orators--Critics--and Wits--And I'll bet that your Journal(Pray is it diurnal?)Will pay with your luckiest hits.
You can make any loss upWith "Spence" and his gossip,A work which must surely succeed;Then Queen Mary's Epistle-craft,With the new "Fytte" of "Whistlecraft,"Must make people purchase and read.
Then you've General Gordon,Who girded his sword on,To serve with a Muscovite Master,And help him to polishA nation so owlish,They thought shaving their beards a disaster.
For the man, "poor and shrewd,"With whom you'd concludeA compact without more delay,Perhaps some such pen isStill extant in Venice;But please, Sir, to mention your pay.
Now tell me some newsOf your friends and the Muse,Of the Bar, or the Gown, or the House,From Canning, the tall wit,To Wilmot, the small wit,Ward's creeping Companion and Louse,
Who's so damnably bitWith fashion and Wit,That he crawls on the surface like Vermin,But an Insect in both,--By his Intellect's growth,Of what size you may quickly determine.
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.