Who-by particular desire

For that night only, means to hire
A dress from Romeo C-tes, Esquire-
Something between ('twere sin to hack it)
The Romeo robe and Hobby jacket!
Hail, first of actors! best of R-g-ts!
Born for each other's fond allegiance!
Both gay Lotharios-both good dressers-
Of Serious Farce both learn'd Professors-
Both circled round, for use or show,
With cock's-combs, wheresoe'er they go!
Thou know'st the time, thou man of lore!
It takes to chalk a ball-room floor-
Thou know'st the time too, well-a-day!
It takes to dance that chalk away.2
The ball-room opens-far and nigh
Comets and suns beneath us lie;
O'er snowy moons and stars we walk,
And the floor seems a sky of chalk!
But soon shall fade the bright deceit,
When many a maid, with busy feet
That sparkle in the lustre's ray,
O'er the white path shall bound and play
Like nymphs along the Milky Way!-
At every step a star is fled,

And suns grow dim beneath their tread!
So passeth life-(thus Sc-tt would write,
And spinsters read him with delight)-
Hours are not feet, yet hours trip on,
Time is not chalk, yet time's soon gone!3
But, hang this long digressive flight!
I meant to say, thou'lt see, that night,
What falsehood rankles in their hearts,
Who say the P-e neglects the arts-

"Quem tu, Melpomene, semel

Nascentem placido lumine, videris," &c.-Horace.
The Man upon whom thou hast deign'd to look funny,
Thou great Tragic Muse! at the hour of his birth-
Let them say what they will, that's the Man for my money,
Give others thy tears, but let me have thy mirth!

The assertion that follows, however, is not verified in the instance before us:

"Illum

non equns impiger

Curru ducet Achaico."

2 To those who neither go to balls nor read the Morning Post, it may be necessary to mention that the floors of ball-rooms, in general, are chalked, for safety and for ornament, with various fanciful devices.

3 Hearts are not flint, yet flints are rent,

Hearts are not steel, yet steel is bent.

After all, however, Mr. Sc-tt may well say to the Colonel (and, indeed much better wags than the Colonel), ραον μωμεισθαι η μιμείσθαι.

Neglects the arts!-no St-g! no;
Thy Cupids answer " 'tis not so:"
And every floor, that night, shall tell
How quick thou daubest, and how well!
Shine as thou may'st in French vermillion,
Thou'rt best-beneath a French cotillion;
And still com'st off, whate'er thy faults,
With flying colours in a waltz!

Nor need'st thou mourn the transient date
To thy best works assign'd by fate-
While some chef-d'œuvres live to weary one,
Thine boast a short life and a merry one;
Their hour of glory past and gone
With "Molly, put the kettle on!"

But, bless my soul! I've scarce a leaf
Of paper left-so, must be brief.
This festive fête, in fact, will be
The former fête's fac-simile;1

The same long masquerade of rooms,
Trick'd in such different, quaint costumes,
(These, P-rt-r, are thy glorious works!)
You'd swear Egyptians, Moors, and Turks,
Bearing good taste some deadly malice
Had clubb'd to raise a pic-nic palace;
And each, to make the oglio pleasant,
Had sent a state-room as a present!-
The same fauteuils and girandoles-
The same gold asses,2 pretty souls!
That, in this rich and classic dome,
Appear so perfectly at home!

The same bright river 'mongst the dishes,
But not-ah! not the same dear fishes-
Late hours and claret kill'd the old ones!-
So, 'stead of silver and of gold ones

(It being rather hard to raise

Fish of that specie now-a-days),

Some Sprats have been, by Y-rm-th's wish,
Promoted into Silver Fish,

And Gudgeons (so V-ns-tt-t told
The R-g-t) are as good as Gold!
So, prythee, come-our fête will be
But half a fête, if wanting thee!

J. T.

1C-rl-t-n He will exhibit a complete fac-simile, in respect to interior ornament, to what it did at the last fête. The same splendid draperies," &c., &c.-Morning Post.

2 The salt-cellars on the P-e's own table were in the form of an ass with panniers.

TRIFLE S.

THE INSURRECTION OF THE PAPERS.

A DREAM.

"It would be impossible for his Royal Highness to disengage his person from the accumulating pile of papers that encompassed it."-Lord Castlereagh's Speech upon Colonel M'Malion's Appointment.

LAST night I toss'd and turn'd in bed,
But could not sleep-at length I said,
"I'll think of Viscount C-stl-r-gh,
And of his speeches-that's the way."
And so it was, for instantly

I slept as sound as sound could be.
And then I dream'd-O frightful dream!
Fuseli has no such theme;

never wrote or borrow'd

Any horror, half so horrid!

Methought the P―e, in whisker'd state,
Before me at his breakfast sate;

On one side lay unread Petitions,
On t'other, Hints from five Physicians-
Here tradesmen's bills, official papers,
Notes from my Lady, drams for vapours-
There plans of saddles, tea and toast,
Death-warrants and the Morning Post.
When lo! the papers, one and all,
As if at some magician's call,
Began to flutter of themselves

From desk and table, floor and shelves,
And, cutting each some different capers,
Advanced, O jacobinic papers!

As though they said, "Our sole design is
To suffocate his Royal Highness!"

The leader of this vile sedition
Was a huge Catholic Petition,
With grievances so full and heavy,
It threaten'd worst of all the bevy.
Then Common-Hall Addresses came
In swaggering sheets, and took their aim
Right at the R-g-t's well-dress'd head,
As if determined to be read!

Next Tradesmen's Bills began to fly,

And Tradesmen's Bills, we know, mount high;
Nay, e'en Death-Warrants thought they'd best
Be lively too, and join the rest.

But, oh, the basest of defections!
His Letter about "predilections'
His own dear Letter, void of grace,
Now flew up in its parent's face!
Shock'd with this breach of filial duty,
He just could murmur "et tu Brute?"
Then sunk, subdued upon the floor
At Fox's bust, to rise no more!

I waked—and pray'd with lifted hand,
"Oh! never may this dream prove true;
Though Paper overwhelms the land,
Let it not crush the Sovereign too!"

PARODY OF A CELEBRATED LETTER.

Ar length, dearest Freddy, the moment is nigh, When, with P-rc-v-I's leave, I may throw my chains by;

And, as time now is precious, the first thing I do,

Is to sit down and write a wise letter to you.

I meant before now to have sent you this Letter,

But Y-rm-th and I thought perhaps 'twould be better
To wait till the Irish affairs were decided-

That is, till both Houses had prosed and divided,
With all due appearance of thought and digestion-

For, though H-rtf—rd House had long settled the question,

I thought it but decent, between me and you,
That the two other Houses should settle it too.

I need not remind you how cursedly bad

Our affairs were all looking when Father went mad:

A strait waistcoat on him and restrictions on me,
A more limited Monarchy could not well be.
I was call'd upon then, in that moment of puzzle,
To choose my own Minister-just as they muzzle
A playful young bear, and then mock his disaster,
By bidding him choose out his own dancing-master.

I thought the best way, as a dutiful son,

Was to do as Old Royalty's self would have done.
So I sent word to say, I would keep the whole batch in,
The same chest of tools, without cleansing or patching;
For tools of this kind, like Martinus's sconce,1
Would lose all their beauty if purified once;
And think-only think-if our Father should find,
Upon graciously coming again to his mind,

That improvement had spoil'd any favourite adviser-
That R- -se was grown honest, or W-stm-rel-nd wiser-
That R-d-r was, e'en by one twinkle, the brighter-
Or L-v-rp-I's speeches but half a pound lighter-
What a shock to his old royal heart it would be!
No!-far were such dreams of improvement from me:
And it pleased me to find, at the house, where, you know,
There's such good mutton cutlets and strong curaçoa,2
That the Marchioness call'd me a duteous old boy,
And my Y-rm-th's red whiskers grew redder for joy!

You know, my dear Freddy, how oft, if I would,
By the law of last Sessions I might have done good.
I might have withheld these political noodles

From knocking their heads against hot Yankee Doodles;
I might have told Ireland I pitied her lot,

Might have sooth'd her with hope-but you know I did not.
And my wish is, in truth, that the best of old fellows
Should not, on recovering, have cause to be jealous,
But find that, while he has been laid on the shelf,
We've been all of us nearly as mad as himself.
You smile at my hopes--but the Doctors and I,
Are the last that can think the K―ng ever will die!

A new era's arrived-though you'd hardly believe it—
And all things, of course, must be new to receive it.
New villas, new fêtes (which e'en Waithman attends)-
New saddles, new helmets, and—why not new friends?

The antique shield of Martinus Scriblerus, which, upon scouring, turned out to be only an old sconce.

2 The letter-writer's favourite luncheon.