CCCXIII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The poet calls for praise in this letter, a species of coin which is always ready.]
How cruel are the parents.[280]
Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion.[281]
Well, this is not amiss. You see how I answer your orders—your tailor could not be more punctual. I am just now in a high fit for poetizing, provided that the strait-jacket of criticism don’t cure me. If you can, in a post or two, administer a little of the intoxicating potion of your applause, it will raise your humble servant’s phrensy to any height you want. I am at this moment “holding high converse” with the muses, and have not a word to throw away on such a prosaic dog as you are.
R. B.