Forgetting still, which greatly grieves my bowels,
To send back silver forks, or spoons, or towels.
Last, but not least, are those uncivil wars,
Poetic license calls domestic jars,
And which I find, though far from nice or fickle,
Without exception, yield the worst of pickle.
DECEMBER.—"The Winter of our Discontent."
Mamma had kept the house in Duke Street for more than two years. I recollected some of the chairs and tables, from dear old Squiggle, and the bowl in which I had made that famous rum-punch, the evening she went away, which she and my sisters left untouched, and I was obliged to drink after they were gone; but that's not to the purpose.