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TO A CRITIC*
WHO QUOTED AN ISOLATED PASSAGE, AND THEN
DECLARED IT UNINTELLIGIBLE.
By way of joke, pluck out your eye,
TO BE SUNG BY THE LOVERS OF ALL THE NOBLE
LIQUORS COMPRISED UNDER THE NAME OF
* 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.
This sad brief tale is all that Truth can giveHe lived like one who never thought to die,
He died like one who dared not hope to live !
DRINKING VERSUS THINKING;
Pray tell me what good is it?
I guess we ne'er should miss it.
Away, each pale, self-brooding spark
Away from our carousing !
* Morning Post, Sept. 22, 1801. + Ibid, Sept. 25, 1801.
To Pallas we resign such fowls-
And all your trade but mousing !
My Merry men all, here's punch and wine,
Let's live while we are able.
Dead drunk beneath the table !
A HINT TO PREMIERS AND FIRST
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
THE WILLS OF THE WISP.
A SAPPHIC. †
Vix ea nostra voco.
* Morning Post, Sept. 27, 1802 ; Coleridge's his own Times,” 111. 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
I know it!
Black-eyed Rebecca !
[The following is an almost literal translation of a very old and
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 ;
Say, folks in Heaven fare finely.
When she asks, “What ! Is he sick ?”
Say, dead !-and when for sorrow
Say, I come to-morrow.
* Morning Post, Sept. 27, 1802 ; Coleridge's “Essays on his own Times:" vol. 111. p. 992.
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
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.
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
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.