For Novels, should their critick hints succeed,

The Misses might fare better when they took ’em;

But it would fare extremely ill, indeed,

With gentle Messieurs Lane and Hookham.

“A Novel, now,” says Will, “is nothing more

Than an old castle,—and a creaking door,—

A distant hovel;—

Clanking of chains—a gallery—a light,—

Old armour—and a phantom all in white,—

And there’s a Novel!