Monsieur.
Could I give up the dread of retribution,
The awful reck'ning of some future day,
Like surly Hateall I might curse mankind,
And dare the threat'ned vengeance of the skies.
Or like yon apostate——
[Pointing to Hazlerod, retired to a corner to read Massachusettensis.
Scriblerius.
Well quit thy post;——Go make thy flatt'ring court
To Freedom's Sons and tell thy baby fears;
Shew the foot traces in thy puny heart,
Made by the trembling tongue and quiv'ring lip
Of an old grandsire's superstitious whims.
Monsieur.
No,——I never can——
So great the itch I feel for titl'd place,
Some honorary post, some small distinction,
To save my name from dark oblivion's jaws,
I'll hazard all, but ne'er give up my place,
For that I'll see Rome's ancient rites restor'd,
And flame and faggot blaze in ev'ry street.
Beau Trumps.
——That's right, Monsieur,
There's nought on earth that has such tempting charms
As rank and show, and pomp, and glitt'ring dress,
Save the dear counters at belov'd Quadril,
Viner unsoil'd, and Littleton, may sleep,
And Coke lie mould'ring on the dusty shelf,
If I by shuffling draw some lucky card
That wins the livres, or lucrative place.
Hum Humbug.