The Spleen. in Four Cantos. Canto III

To Alma-Mater sent the boy, A burnish'd, base, Bath-metal , toy, That, new, look'd bright and glossy; But all that glitters is not gold; Its lustre soil'd, thus, soon, behold The trinket dull and drossy!

While fondly fostered, it is true, Apace the ill-weed witling grew, To more than school-boy stature: When Mother FOLLY, midwife SPLEEN, And nurse's milk stepp'd in between; And habit shrunk from Nature.

Fantastic, feeble, fractious grown, And never taught to stand alone On every chum he hung: On Thornton now, and now on Lloyd Till, with the mewling kitling cloy'd, They curs'd him as he clung.

Tho, unsuspecting his intent, They never dreamt much harm he meant, Nor thought cattivo theivish; Till suck'd their brains, au Connoisseur, Bob, careless, call'd his mother whore, And Bonnel, bit, grew peevish.

Discarded by his college chums, Alone, he pick'd up a few crumbs, For poesies, writ for cutlers; Wrote lying paragraphs for news, And verses, so reduc'd his muse! For chamber-maids and butlers.

To Flockton flyiNg next for aid, Begging to learn the shew-man's trade, Apprentic'd was our hero; So Punch and Punch's wife, 'tis said, And Scaramouch ran in his head, And Harlequin and Pierrot.

At this disgusted, WIT, his fire, And Alma-Mater both took fire, And turn'd our 'Squire adrift; For, having limb'd him to the law, They thought, to make or mend a flaw, He might have made a shift.

Nay, so delighted with the child, On whom they fancied Genius smil'd, While yet the merest minor, To run for the professor's plate, They started him a candidate With Blackstone versus Viner

But humbled suddenly their pride By seeing, justly mortified, Ev'n chums black-ball their croney So have I seen outstrip the wind A racer fleet; left far behind A poor pretending poney.

At lesser game, yet, still, they said, He might successfully have play'd; Poor creatures prosper daily. In Chanc'ry, King's-Bench, Common-Pleas, Although he might not pick up fees, He might at the Old-Bailey.

But, doom'd his fortunes still to marr, The stage prefering to the bar, And pert to prudent quibbling, He only sigh'd for Davy's skill In managing the grey-goose quill, To profit by transcribbling.

Blest times are these our modern days, Abounding in forgotten plays, Through time and chance neglected— Give Managers a fellow-feeling, Play-wrights may safely go on stealing, And brave the being detected.

How loud and long the town's horse-laugh With Kelly, Foote and Bickerstaff, At a Joe Miller's jest; E'en in the manner if they're caught, How readily excus'd the fault! "Old songs and jokes are best."

Nay so it is, tho past belief, False to themselves, the rogues rob thief; Safe if they make us merry. Sure the loud clap, the noisy roar, The clattering club, encore, encore! And bravo Mr. Sherry.

The drama's art so easy made, So flourishing the shew-booth trade, Our hero fond of pelf, With eagerness to thrive the faster, Projected setting up as master, And scribbling for himself.

For, of some small success so vain, A paper'd house had turn'd his brain, The little brain still left him. When now, behold, to top her part, A stroler's strumpet stole his heart And quite of head bereft him.

"For ah ! what pleasure is in life, "And what's a man without a wife? "A mistress may cornute one." Thus said, to church he blushing led The bride; who soon well comb'd his head; For ma'am was not a mute one.

Now, wiv'd and wanting wealth to get, A playhous soon was to be lett; The devil so apt to lay, Whene'er weak mortals feel within Themselves dispos'd to any sin, Temptation in their way.

Three novices, alike dispos'd, That for the purchase just had clos'd, Wanting a manager; As such the trio strait he join'd; All puffing, as they raise the wind, That he their fire should stir.

But, poking, like an etourdi, Soon (such a man-of-business he) The booth was set a blazing; All in confusion, actors, singers, Burn'd, some their feet and some their fingers: At which the town stood gazing!