Epigram On The Author And Eliza Frequently Differing In Opinion.

Oh! form'd to prompt the smile or tear,
At once so sweet, yet so severe!
As much for you as him I grieve;
Ah! thoughtless! if you thus can leave
A mind with wit and learning bright,
Where Temper sheds its cloudless light;
Where manly honour, taste refin'd,
With ev'ry virtue, are combin'd;
If you can quit a heart so true,
Which has so often throbb'd for you,
I'll pity, tho' I can't reprove;
And did I, such is Florio's love,
Eager he'd fly to take thy part,
E'en in a war against his heart.

Strange! all this difference should be
'Twixt Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee!

Pale is Amelia's face,
And red Lavinia's nose is;
The sisters ever jar:
'Tis like the civil war
Between the rival roses.

    *        *        *        *        *

On that dark theme, man's genealogy,
How strangely people's notions disagree!
Sir Snub-nose, growling, swears that he can trace
Strong kindred likeness to the monkey-race:
My Lady Graceful smiles, well-pleased, to find
Far more resemblance to the Angelic-kind:
Sure the reflection from their looking-glasses
Into their minds, to prompt opinion passes.
Would-be philosophers have tried to scan
The pedigree of that odd creature, man.
'We are of monkey-race!' Sir Snub-nose cries.
Your strange assertion strikes me with surprise;
(I, for my part, the compliment decline)
But do you,...

Great folks are of a finer mould;
Lord! how politely they can scold!
While a coarse English tongue will itch,
For whore and rogue, and dog and bitch.

Reader! I do not wish to brag;
But, to display Eliza's skill,
I'd proudly be the vilest rag
That ever went to paper-mill.

Content in pieces to be cut;
Tho' sultry were the summer-skies,
Pleas'd between flannel I'd be put,
And after bath'd in jellied size.

Tho' to be squeez'd and hang'd I hate,
For thee, sweet girl! upon my word,
When the stout press had forc'd me flat,
I'd be suspended on a cord.

And then, when dried and fit for use,
Eliza! I would pray to thee,
If with thy pen thou would'st amuse,
That thou would'st deign to write on me.

Gad's bud! how pleasant it would prove
Her pretty chit-chat to convey,
P'rhaps be the record of her love,
Told in some coy enchanting way.

Or, if her pencil she would try,

How fairly Fortune all her gifts imparts;
We win your money, Ann, and you our hearts.