LXXXIV.

There was Parolles, too, the legal bully,
Who limits all his battles to the bar
And senate: when invited elsewhere, truly,

He shows more appetite for words than war. There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had newly

Come out and glimmer'd as a six-weeks' star. There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great freethinker; And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker. LXXXV.

There was the Duke of Dash, who was a-duke,
"Ay, every inch a" duke; there were twelve peers
Like Charlemagne's-and all such peers in look
And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears
For commoners had ever them mistook.
There were the six Miss Rawbolds-pretty dears.
All song and sentiment; whose hearts were set
Less on a convent than a coronet.

LXXXVI.

There were four Honorable Misters, whose

Honor was more before their names than after; There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, [here, Whom France and fortune lately deign'd to waft Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse;

But the Clubs found it rather serious laughter, Because-such was his magic power to please,The dice seem'd charm'd too with his repartees. LXXXVII.

There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician,
Who loved philosophy and a good dinner;
Angle, the soi-distant mathematician;

Sir Henry Silver-cup, the great race-winner;
There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian;
Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner;
And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet,
Good at all things, but better at a bet.

LXXXVIII.

There was Jack Jargon, the gigantic guardsman;
And General Fireface, famous in the field,
A great tactician, and no less a swordsman,
Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill'd.
There was the waggish Welsh Judge, Jefferies Hards-
In his grave office so completely skill'd, [man,
That when a culprit came for condemnation,
He had his judge's joke for consolation.

LXXXIX.

Good company's a chess-board-there are kings, Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns; the world's a game;

Save that the puppets pull at their own strings; Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same. My Muse, the butterfly, hath but her wings,

Not stings, and flits through ether without aim,
Alighting rarely: were she but a hornet,
Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it.
XC.

I had forgotten-but must not forget-
An orator, the latest of the session,
Who had deliver'd well a very set

Smooth speech, his first and maidenly trangression Upon debate: the papers echoed yet

With this debut, which made a strong impression, And rank'd with what is every day display'd"The best first speech that ever yet was made."

A sleep without dreams, after a rough day
Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet
How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay!
The very suicide that pays his debt
At once without instalments (an old way
Of paying debts, which creditors regret)
Lets out impatiently his rushing breath,

I think that were I certain of success,
I hardly could compose another line:
So long I've battled either more or less,

That no defeat can drive me from the Nine.
This feeling 'tis not easy to express,
And yet 'tis not affected, I opine.

'Tis said-indeed a general complaint

That no one has succeeded in describing The monde, exactly as they ought to paint.

Some say, that authors only snatch, by bribing The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint, To furnish matter for their moral gibing;

XIII.

Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction:
She gathers a repertory of facts,

Of course with some reserve and slight restriction,
But mostly sings of human things and acts-
And that's one cause she meets with contradiction;
For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attracts;
And were her object only what's call'd glory,
With more ease too she'd tell a different story.

My lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman.

XX.

But this can't well be true, just now; for writers
Are grown of the beau monde a part potential:
I've seen them balance even the scale with fighters,
Especially when young, for that's essential.
Why do their sketches fail them as inditers

Of, what they deem themselves most conse The real portrait of the highest tribe? [quential 'Tis that, in fact, there's little to describe.

XXI.

“Haud ignara loquor:" these are nuga, “quarum Pars parva fui," but still art and part.

Now I could much more easily sketch a haram,

A battle, wreck, or history of the heart,

XXVIII.

And when upon a silent, sullen day,

With a Sirocco, for example, blowing,When even the sea looks dim with all its spray, And sulkily the river's ripple's flowing,

For reasons which I choose to keep apart. "Vetabo Cereris sacrum qui vulgarit,"

The sober sad antithesis to glowing,'Tis pleasant, if then any thing is pleasant,