For the Journal you hint of,[85]
As ready to print off,
No doubt you do right to commend it;
But as yet I have writ off
The devil a bit of
Our "Beppo:"—when copied, I'll send it.
3.
In the mean time you've "Galley"[86]
Whose verses all tally,
Perhaps you may say he's a Ninny,
But if you abashed are
Because of Alashtar,
He'll piddle another Phrosine.[87]
4.
Then you've Sotheby's Tour,—[88]
No great things, to be sure,—
You could hardly begin with a less work;
For the pompous rascallion,
Who don't speak Italian
Nor French, must have scribbled by guess-work.
5.
No doubt he's a rare man
Without knowing German
Translating his way up Parnassus,
And now still absurder
He meditates Murder
As you'll see in the trash he calls Tasso's.
6.
But you've others his betters
The real men of letters
Your Orators—Critics—and Wits—
And I'll bet that your Journal
(Pray is it diurnal?)
Will pay with your luckiest hits.
7.