Nor any scheming, transatlantic Bunn,
Tempting with golden hopes your waning years,
Like ‘certain stars shot madly from their spheres,’
Like Mathews or old Dowton, to expose
The shank all shrunken from its youthful hose;
So boldly read, howe’er it make you sigh,
Nor manager nor creditor am I;
Yet in some sort you are indeed my debtor,
And owe me for my pains at least a letter.
Not long ago, conversing at the Club