X.
O could I as Harlequin frisk,
And thou be my Columbine fair,
My wand should with one magic whisk
Transport us to Hanover Square:
St. George’s should lend us its shrine,
The parson his shoulders might shrug,
But a licence should force him to join
My hand in the hand of my Mugg.
Court-plaster the weapons should tip,
By Cupid shot down from above,
Which, cut into spots for thy lip,
Should still barb the arrows of love.
The God who from others flies quick,
With us should be slow as a slug;
As close as a leech he should stick
To me and Elizabeth Mugg.
XII.
For Time would, with us, ’stead of sand,
Put filings of steel in his glass,
To dry up the blots of his hand,
And spangle life’s page as they pass.
Since all flesh is grass ere ’tis hay, [60]
O may I in clover live snug,
And when old Time mows me away,
Be stacked with defunct Lady Mugg!
XII.
FIRE AND ALE.
By M. G. L. [61]
[MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS.]
[Mr. Lewis died 14th May, 1818, in his 43rd year.]