But, for the R—g—t, my advice is,
We should throw in much heavier things:
For instance, ———'s quarto volumes,
Which, though not spices, serve to wrap them;
Dominic St—dd—t's Daily columns,
"Prodigious!"—in, of course we'd clap them—
Letters, that C—rtw—t's pen indites,
In which, with logical confusion,
The Major like a Minor writes,
And never comes to a conclusion:
Lord S—m—rs' pamphlet, or his head—
(Ah, that were worth its weight in lead!)
Along with which we in may whip, sly,
The Speeches of Sir John C—x H—pp—sly;
That Baronet of many words.
Who loves so, in the House of Lords,
To whisper Bishops—and so nigh
Unto their wigs in whisp'ring goes,
That you may always know him by
A patch of powder on his nose!—
If this won't do, we must in cram
The "Reasons" of Lord B—ck—gh—m;
(A book his Lordship means to write,
Entitled, "Reasons for my Ratting:"
Or, should these prove too small and light,
His ——'s a host, we'll bundle that in!
And, still should all these masses fail
To stir the R—g—t's ponderous scale,
Why then, my Lord, in heaven's name,
Pitch in, without reserve or stint,
The whole of R—g—ly's beauteous dame—
If that won't raise him, devil's in't.
But we stop here, or we shall quote the whole work. We like the political part of this jeu d'esprit better, on the whole, than the merely comic and familiar. Bob Fudge is almost too suffocating a coxcomb, even in description, with his stays and patés; and Miss Biddy Fudge, with her poke bonnet and her
