Should haste to town, to drag me down
From my envied post of poetic renown.
Miss P***, I’ve a favor to ask.—If ’tis true,
That “Nothing to Wear,” and “Nothing to Do,”
And “Nothing to Eat,” were all written by you,—
Let those three Nothings content you I pray,
Say nothing yourself; leave me “Nothing to Say.”
From time immemorial, people of fashion
Have been the target of poets and penny wits,