The tasteless world must bear the blame.
I had a budget, full of fan,
But here again, I'm lost, undone!
I'm so forestall'd--that faith, I could
Half quarrel with--my _lively Hood_:
For _odd it is_, my "Oddities,"
Are _even_ all the same with his;
Would _Sherwood_ (him of Paternoster),
Assist my pilferings to foster,
I'd turn free-booter--nay, I would
E'en play the part of _robbing Hood_--
But brother Wits should never quarrel,
Nor try to "pluck each other's laurel,"
And tho' my income's scarce enough
To find friend Petersham with snuff,
Here's peace to all! and kind regards!
And _Brother Hood_ among the Bards.
So all, friends, countrymen, and lovers,
With one, or one and twenty covers,
Farewell to all;--my glories past,
I pen my lay, my sweetest, last!
Another Phoenix, build my nest
Of spices, Phoebus' very best,
Concentrating in these gay pages,
Wit, worth the wit of all the stages;
Love, tender as the midnight talk,
In softest summer's midnight walk,
With leave to all earth's fools to spurn 'em,
Nay (if they first will _buy_) to burn 'em.
TO THE REVIEWERS.
Oh! ye, enthroned in presidential awe,
To give the song-smit generation law;
Who wield Apollo's delegated rod,
And shake Parnassus with your sovereign nod;
A pensive Pilgrim, worn with base turmoils,
Plebeian cares, and mercenary toils,
Implores your pity, while with footsteps rude,
He dares within the mountain's pale intrude;
For, oh! enchantment through its empire dwells.
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