But laughing Colman[9] lives, a son of humour.
C. M.
’Tis true—his dashes of coarse fun and drollery,
Might smooth the wrinkles of a pedant’s brow,
And loose a stoic’s muscles: and sometimes
Beneath his various merry-andrew coat
I’ve thought I spied the stamp of manly genius,
Some vestige of his father’s purest wit.
But ah! I fear ’twas a false light betray’d me.
Let him write farce; but let him not presume