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TO A CRITIC*

WHO QUOTED AN ISOLATED PASSAGE, AND THEN

DECLARED IT UNINTELLIGIBLE.

MOST candid critic, what if I,

By way of joke, pluck out your eye,
And holding up the fragment cry,
“ Ha! ha! that men such fools should be !
Behold this shapeless mass !—and he
Who own'd it, dreamt that it could see !”
The joke were mighty analytic,
But should you like it, candid critic?

SONG

UNDER

TO BE SUNG BY THE LOVERS OF ALL THE NOBLE LIQUORS COMPRISED

THE NAME OF ALE. †

A.
YE
E drinkers of Stingo and Nappy so free,
Are the Gods on Olympus so happy [as] we ?

B.
They cannot be so happy!
For why? they drink no Nappy.

* Originally printed in the Morning Post, Dec. 16, 1801, with the heading, “To a Critic who extracted a passage from a poem without adding a word respecting the context, and then derided it as unintelligible.” Reprinted in The Keepsake, 1829, as above, with the author's name.

Morning Post, Sept. 18, 1801.

A.
But what if Nectar, in their lingo,
Is but another name for Stingo?

B.
Why, then we and the Gods are equally blest,
And Olympus an Ale-house as good as the best !

EPITAPH

ON A BAD MAN. *
OF him that in this gorgeous tomb doth lie

This sad brief tale is all that Truth can give He lived like one who never thought to die,

He died like one who dared not hope to live!

DRINKING VERSUS THINKING; OR, A SONG AGAINST THE NEW PHILOSOPHY.† MY Merry men all, that drink with glee

This fanciful Philosophy,

Pray tell me what good is it? If antient Nick should come and take The same across the Stygian Lake,

I guess we ne'er should miss it. Away, each pale, self-brooding spark That goes truth-hunting in the dark,

Away from our carousing !

* Morning Post, Sept. 22, 1801. Ibid, Sept. 25, 1801.

To Pallas we resign such fowls-
Grave birds of wisdom ! ye're but owls,

And all your trade but mousing !

My Merry men all, here's punch and wine,
And spicy bishop, drink divine !

Let's live while we are able.
While Mirth and Sense sit, hand in glove,
This Don Philosophy we'll shove

Dead drunk beneath the table !

A HINT TO PREMIERS AND FIRST

CONSULS. *
FROM AN OLD TRAGEDY, VIZ. AGATHA TO

KING ARCHELAUS.
THREE truths should make thee often think

and pause ; The first is, that thou govern’st over men ; The second, that thy power is from the laws; And this the third, that thou must die and

then ?

THE WILLS OF THE WISP.

A SAPPHIC. †

Vix ea nostra voco.
LUNATIC Witch-fires ! Ghosts of Light and

Motion !
Fearless I see you weave your wanton dances

* Morning Post, Sept. 27, 1802 ; Coleridge's “ Essays on his own Times,” 11. 992.

Morning Post, December 1, 1801.

Near me, far off me; you, that tempt the traveller

Onward and onward.

Wooing, retreating, till the swamp beneath him
Groans—and 'tis dark !—This woman's wile-

I know it!
Learnt it from thee, from thy perfidious glances !

Black-eyed Rebecca !

WESTPHALIAN SONG.*

[The following is an almost literal translation of a very old and very favourite song among the Westphalian Boors. The turn at the end is the same with one of Mr. Dibdin's excellent songs, and the air to which it is sung by the Boors is remarkably sweet and lively.]

WHEN thou to my true-love comest

Greet her from me kindly;
When she asks thee how I fare?

Say, folks in Heaven fare finely.

When she asks, “ What! Is he sick?"

Say, dead !—and when for sorrow
She begins to sob and cry,

Say, I come to-morrow.

* Morning Post, Sept. 27, 1802 ; Coleridge's “Essays on his own Times:" vol. in. p. 992.

ORIGINAL EPIGRAMS.*

WHAT is an Epigram? a dwarfish whole,

Its body brevity, and wit its soul.

CHARLES, grave or merry, at no lie would stick,

And taught at length his memory the same

trick.

Believing thus what he so oft repeats He's brought the thing to such a pass, poor youth,

That now himself and no one else he cheats, Save when unluckily he tells the truth.

AN evil spirit's on thee, friend ! of late

Ev'n from the hour thou camest to thy estate. Thy mirth all gone, thy kindness, thy discretion, Th' estate has proved to thee a most complete possession.

[blest, Shame, shame, old friend ! would'st thou be truly Be thy wealth's lord, not slave! possessor, not

possess'd.

HERE lies the Devil—ask no other name.

Well—but you mean Lord— ? Hush! we mean the same.

* Printed in The Morning Post, Sept. 23 and Oct. 2, 9, 11, 1802.

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