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 Twopenny Post Bag; But now to my letter -- to yours 't is an answer -- To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir, All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on (According to compact) the wit in the dungeon -- Pray Phoebus at length our political malice May not 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DREAM THAT CRACKED A WHIP by FRANCES AIRTH TO A. E. HOUSMAN by MARGARET ASH PSALM 115 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE HYMN 6. ERYSICHTHON by CALLIMACHUS WAITING by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES TO J. Q. by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR |