You could hardly begin with a less work; For the pompous rascallion,

Who don't speak Italian

Nor French, must have scribbled by guesswork.

You can make

any loss up

With "Spence" and his gossip,

A work which must surely succeed;
Then Queen Mary's Epistle-craft,
With the new "Fytte" of "Whistlecraft,"
Must make people purchase and read.

Then you've General Gordon,

Who girded his sword on,

To serve with a Muscovite master,

And help him to polish

A nation so owlish,

They thought shaving their beards a disaster.

For the man," poor and shrewd,"

With whom you'd conclude

A compact without more delay,

Perhaps some such pen is

Still extant in Venice;

But please, sir, to mention your pay.

Venice, January 8. 1818.

TO MR. MURRAY. (1)

STRAHAN, Tonson, Lintot of the times,
Patron and publisher of rhymes,

For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,
My Murray.

To thee, with hope and terror dumb,
The unfledged MS. authors come;
Thou printest all-and sellest some—
My Murray.

Upon thy table's baize so green
The last new Quarterly is seen,-
But where is thy new Magazine,

My Murray?

Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine
The works thou deemest most divine-
The “ Art of Cookery," and mine,
My Murray.

Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist,
And Sermons to thy mill bring grist;
And then thou hast the " Navy List,"
My Murray.

And Heaven forbid I should conclude
Without "the Board of Longitude,"
Although this narrow paper would,
My Murray!

Venice, March 25. 1818.

(1) [See Moore's Notices, antè, Vol. IV. p. 96.]

TO THOMAS MOORE.(1)

WHAT are you doing now,
Oh Thomas Moore ?
What are you doing now,
Oh Thomas Moore ?
Sighing or suing now,
Rhyming or wooing now,
Billing or cooing now,
Which, Thomas Moore ?

But the Carnival's coming,
Oh Thomas Moore !
The Carnival's coming,
Oh Thomas Moore !
Masking and humming,
Fifing and drumming,
Guitarring and strumming,
Oh Thomas Moore !

EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT.

WITH death doom'd to grapple

Beneath this cold slab, he

Who lied in the Chapel
Now lies in the Abbey.

(1) [See Vol. III. p. 319. antè.]

SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH,

ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD'S FORFEITURE.

To be the father of the fatherless,

To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and raise

His offspring, who expired in other days

To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less, -
This is to be a monarch, and repress

Envy into unutterable praise.

Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits, For who would lift a hand, except to bless? Were it not easy, sir, and is't not sweet To make thyself beloved? and to be Omnipotent by mercy's means? for thus

Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete, A despot thou, and yet thy people free, And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us.

Bologna, August 12. 1819. (1)

(1) ["So the prince has been repealing Lord Fitzgerald's forfeiture? Ecco un' sonetto? There, you dogs! there's a sonnet for you: you won't have such as that in a hurry from Fitzgerald. You may publish it with my name, an' ye wool. He deserves all praise, bad and good: it was a very noble piece of principality."- Lord B. to Mr. Murray.]

EPIGRAM.

FROM THE FRENCH OF RULHIERES.

IF, for silver or for gold,

You could melt ten thousand pimples

Into half a dozen dimples,

Then your face we might behold,

Looking, doubtless, much more snugly;

Yet even then 'twould be d

d ugly.

ON MY WEDDING-DAY.

HERE's a happy new year! but with reason
I beg you'll permit me to say-
Wish me many returns of the season,
But as few as you please of the day.

EPIGRAM.

IN digging up your bones, Tom Paine,

Will. Cobbett has done well:

You visit him on earth again,

He'll visit you in hell.