In short these torments never cease,
And oft I wish myself transferred off
To some far, lonely land of peace
Where Corn or Papists ne'er were heard of.
Yes, waft me, Parry, to the Pole;
For—if my fate is to be chosen
'Twixt bores and icebergs—on my soul,
I'd rather, of the two, be frozen!
[1] The Horn Gate, through which the ancients supposed all true dreams (such as those of the Popish Plot, etc.) to pass.
A CASE OF LIBEL.
"The greater the truth, the worse the libel."
A certain Sprite, who dwells below,
('Twere a libel perhaps to mention where,)
Came up incog. some years ago
To try for a change the London air.
So well he lookt and drest and talkt,
And hid his tail and horns so handy,
You'd hardly have known him as he walkt
From C——e, or any other Dandy.
(His horns, it seems, are made to unscrew;
So he has but to take them out of the socket,
And—just as some fine husbands do—
Conveniently clap them into his pocket.)
In short, he lookt extremely natty,
And even contrived—to his own great wonder—
By dint of sundry scents from Gattie,
To keep the sulphurous hogo under.
And so my gentleman hoofed about,
Unknown to all but a chosen few
At White's and Crockford's, where no doubt
He had many post-obits falling due.