To Thomas Moore

OH you, who in all names can tickle the town, Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown,-- For hang me if I know of which you may most brag, Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post Bag;

But now to my letter--to yours 'tis an answer-- To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir, All ready and dressed for proceeding to spunge on (According to compact) the wit in the dungeon-- Pray Phoebus at length our political malice May not get us lodgings within the same palace! I suppose that to-night you're engaged with some codgers, And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers; And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got, Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote; But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra, And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra.