night, The stewards indeed refused it, because it was too free, forsooth, for the Women. I laughed at their objection, and began it in the room; the milk-sops, however, cried it down, and the girls lost their amusement. I'll be sworn it would have made ten times more fun than the nambypamby lines of Billy Sonnet (the poet-laureat of the club), which he fitted up for the occasion. You know Billy Sonnet, I sup

pose.

Resin. Yes, yes; I ave heard of him, I see his name and his verses too, at de bottom of de pound of butter dat come from de grocer every Saturday morning. Signora Rattana say he ver sweet writer: she tell me too he make great noise in the vorld, and lately publish Poop*.

Bow-wow. Ha ha! ha! well said, Resin. Yes, yes, he publish Poop, as you say, and has made foul work of it, if we may believe the Edinburgh Review.

Resin. Signora Rattana never read his

* I presume Resin here means Pope.

sonnet vid de dry eye; he ave so much fine sentiment, and so much of de tender feeling.

Bow-wow. Yes; the fine sentiment of a horse-block, and the tender feelings of an oyster. D-n me if it doesn't make me sick, to hear such lullaby-jingle called poetry; and cant and nonsense mistaken for genius and sensibility. Why, man, there is nothing so easy as to snivel in a sonnet. 'Tis only to be childish and obscure, and the business is done. Not so with the manly path of poetry which I tread. My compositions are all Dithyrambics, odes dedicated to Bacchus; and jolly Anacreontics, which celebrate nothing but love and wine. For instance:

Λεγεσιν αι γυναίκες

Ανακρέων γερων ει, &c.

The women tell me I am growing old,
And say my head is bald, my heart is cold;
But give me wine and fair ones, and I'll prove
I still can deeply drink, and warmly love.

But confound the maukish taste of the

present times, say I, which prefers the puny lines of a baby sonneteer ("muling and puking in his nurse's arms") to the sprightly strains that sing of yielding girls and sparkling champagne. But, to go on with the story I was telling you, Billy Sonnet had found in the trash of Taylor the water poet, (for he has a rare spirit of discovery about him when he's in search of any thing to adopt as his own: and, like the immortal Cibber, his antitype in office, genius, and manners,

I

"He here can sip, and there can plunder snug, And suck all o'er like an industrious bug;")

say,

Resin, he'd found in honest Taylor a few stanzas which he thought might be cut down into an appropriate ode. But he so much diluted the poor bard's verses with lopping, and tacking, and furbishing, and modernizing, that before it was half sung, the greatest part of the women were sound asleep. If my song had been given 'em this wouldn't have been the case. But you shall hear it. [Drinks and sings.]

"Amo, amas, I loved a lass,
As a cedar tall and slender;
Amas, amat, and all that—”

Cætera desunt; not being decent.

Resin. Ver funny, pon my onor; but I am ver sorry I must now leave your agre able company, and bid you farewel.

Bow-wow.

D-n it, Resin, h-fi-finish

the bottle [Hiccups.]

Resin. Pon my onor, no. Signora Rattana expect me to make von at her litel circle dis evening; and if I drink more of your vine, I am sure I shall not be able to perform.

Bow-wow. But, zounds, man, le-e-et me light you out. I want to star-g-a-a aze a little. [Hiccups.]

Resin walks off;

"Whilst Bow-wow, fall'n beside his neighbour's sink, Seems to mere mortals but a priest in drink.”.

DUNCIAD.

DIALOGUE THE FIFTH.

SCENE.

THE PUMP-ROOM.

Enter Mr. Drawcansir, und Doctor Skipper.

Drawcansir. "Hast thou found me, oh, my enemy ?"

Skipper. "Yes; I have found thee;" and don't mean to part with you till I've made you acquainted with a little of my mind. Nay, don't look big, Mr. Pompous; a frog is not a whit the more formidable because he's swelled.

Draw. Sir, you're beneath my notice. Skip. Why, truly, Mr. Swaggerer, I am not so high by six inches as your reverence;