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“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 ’tis 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 Phœbus at length our political malice
May not get 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 R—t Mamurra.
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“Dear M.—having got thus far, I am interrupted by * * * * 10 o’clock.
“Half-past 11. * * * * is gone. I must dress for Lady Heathcote’s.—Addio.”
