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Thrice happy he who, after a survey

Of the good company, can win a corner, A door that's in, or boudoir out of the way,

Where he may fix himself like small « Jack Horner, » And let the Babel round run as it may,

And look on as a mourner, or a scorner, Or an approver, or a mere spectator, Yawning a little as the night grows later.


But this won't do, save by and bye; and he

Who, like Don Juan, takes an active share, Must steer with care through all that glittering sea

Of gems and plumes, and pearls and silks, to where He deems it is bis proper place to be;

Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air,
Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill
Where science marshals forth her own quadrille.


Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views

Upon an heiress or his neighbour's bride, Let him take care that that which he pursues

Is not at once too palpably descried.

many an eager gentleman oft rues
His haste: impatience is a blundering guide
Amongst a people famous for reflection,
Who like to play the fool with circumspection.


But, if you can contrive, get next at supper;

Or, if forestall’d, get opposite, and ogle:Oh ye

ambrosial moments! always upper In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle, Which sits for ever upon memory's crupper,

The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue! Ill Can tender souls relate the rise and fall Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball.



But these precautionary hints can touch
Only the common run,


pursue, And watch, and ward; whose plans a word too much

Or little overturns; and not the few
Or many (for the number's sometimes such)

Whom a good mien, especially if new,
Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense,
Permits whate'er they please, or did not long since.


Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome,

Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger, Like other slaves of course must pay

his ransom
Before he can escape from so much danger
As will environ a conspicuous man. Some

Talk about poetry, and « rack and manger, »
And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble;
I wish they knew the life of a young noble.


They ’re young, but know not youth—it is anticipated;

Handsome but wasted, rich without a sous; Their vigour in a thousand arms is dissipated;

Their cash comes from, their wealth goes to a Jew; Both senates see their nightly votes participated

Between the tyrants and the tribunes' crew; And having voted, dined, drank, gamed, and whored, The family vault receives another lord.


« Where is the world,» cries Young, « at eighty ? Where

The world in which a man was born? « Alas! Wliere is the world of eight years past? 'T was there,

I look for it—'t is gone, a globe of glass! Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish’d, scarcely gazed on ere

A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings.


Where is Napoleon the Grand ? God knows :

Where little Castlereagh? The devil can tell : Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those

Who bound the bar or senate in their spell? Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes?

And where the Daughter whom the Isles loved well? Where are those martyred saints the five per cents ? And where-oh where the devil are the rents?


Where's Brummel? Dished. Where's Long Pole Wellesley?Diddled.

Where's Whitbread?Romilly? Where'sGeorgethe Third? Where is his will? (That's not so soon unriddled)

And where is «Fum » the Fourth, our «royal bird?» Gone down it seems to Scotland, to be fiddled

Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard; « Caw me, caw thee»—for six months hath been hatching This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching.


Where is Lord This? and where my Lady That?

The Honourable Mistresses and Misses? Some laid aside like an old opera hat,

Married, unmarried, and remarried: (this is An evolution oft perform’d of late).

Where are the Dublin shouts-and London hisses ? Where are the Grenvilles? Turn'd as usual. Where My friends the whigs? Exactly where they were.


Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses?

Divorced or doing thereanent. Ye annals
So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is,-

Thou Morning Post, sole record of the pannels
Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies

Of fashion,-say what streams now fill those channels? Some die, some fly, some languish on the continent, Because the times have hardly left them one tenant.


Some who once set their


at cautious dukes, Have taken up at length with younger brothers; Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks;

Some maids have been made wives, some merely mothers; Others have lost their fresh and fairy look:

In short, the list of alterations bothers.
There 's little strange in this, but something strange is
The unusual quickness of these common changes.


Talk not of seventy years as age; in seven

I've seen more changes, down from monarchs to The humblest individual under heaven,

Than might suffice a moderate century through. I knew that nought was lasting, but now even

Change grows too changeable, without being new: Nought's permanent among the human race,

, Except the whigs not getting into place.


I've seen Napoleon, who seemed quite a Jupiter,

Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a duke (No matter which) turn politician stupider,

If that can well be, than his wooden look,
But it is time that I should hoist my «blue Peter»

And sail for a new theme: -I 've seen and shook
To see it—the king hiss'd, and then carest;
But don't pretend to settle which was best.

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