Ah! who can paint that first great awful night, When the poor dramatist, all fume and fret, Or rather doubt with hope, a wretched marriage, Witness how Beazley vents upon his hat Gnawed up one long kid glove, and all her bag, Quite to a rag. Knowles has confessed he trembled as for life, Afraid of his own 66 Wife; "" Poole told me that he felt a monstrous pail Of water backing him, all down his spine,- More oranges with his one fevered mouth Lest it should hiss in his own red-hot gullet. Doth punning Peake not sit upon the points 'Tis past denial. And does not Pocock, feeling, like a peacock, And called upon himself to "walk the plank"? Of ease and rest, for sole of either foot, Than bear that capers on a hotted floor! Thus pending does not Mathews, at sad shift For voice, croak like a frog in waters fenny?-- About his arms, and Adam's apple Did Wade feel as composed as music can? And was not Bernard his own Nervous M: n! Lastly, don't Farley, a bewildered elf, To clench the fact, Myself, once guilty of one small rash act, Quite in a hurry, Felt all this flurry, And spiritual scurry, From prompter's bell, A. hissing at some dull imperfect dunce There's no denying I felt in all four elements at once! My head was swimming, while my arms were flying! Thrice welcome, then, for this peculiar use, For this shall dramatists, when they make merry, Drink"Perry!" Perry, whose fame, pennated, is let loose To distant lands, Perry, admitted on all hands, Text, running, German, Roman, For Patent Perryans approached by no man! And when, ah me! far distant be the hour! Shall stand the Parian, Perryan, periwigged Perry, NUMBER ONE. VERSIFIED FROM THE PROSE OF A YOUNG LADY. It's very hard! —and so it is, to live in such a row,- shun; I'm sure he has been asked enough to call at Number One! I'm sick of all the double knocks that come to Number At Number Three, I often see a lover at the door; And one in blue, at Number Two, calls daily like a dun,— Miss Bell, I hear, has got a dear exactly to her mind,- Yet arts that thrive at Number Five don't take at Number One! 'T is hard, with plenty in the street, and plenty passing by,There's nice young men at Number Ten, but only rather shy; And Mrs. Smith across the way has got a grown-up son, But, la! he hardly seems to know there is a Number One! There's Mr. Wick at Number Nine, but he's intent on pelf, And though he's pious will not love his neighbor as himself. At Number Seven there was a sale the goods had quite a run! And here I've got my single lot on hand at Number One! My mother often sits at work and talks of props and stays, I am not old, I am not plain, nor awkward in my gait - Eight: I'm sure white satin made her look as brown as any bun But even beauty has no chance, I think, at Number One! At Number Six they say Miss Rose has slain a score of hearts, And Cupid, for her sake, has been quite prodigal of darts. The imp they show with bended bow, I wish he had a gun ! But if he had, he'd never deign to shoot with Number One. It's very hard, and so it is, to live in such a row! And here's a ballad-singer come to aggravate my woe; take away your foolish song and tones enough to stun There is "Nae luck about the house," I know, at Number One! |