(Apropos--you'd have thought to see Townsend last night,
Escort to their chairs, with his staff, so polite,
The "three maiden Miseries," all in a fright;
Poor Townsend, like Mercury, filling two posts,
Supervisor of _thieves_ and chief-usher of _ghosts_!)
But, my dear Lady----, can't you hit on some notion,
At least for one night to set London in motion?--
As to having the Regent, _that_ show is gone by--
Besides, I've remarkt that (between you and I)
The Marchesa and he, inconvenient in more ways,
Have taken much lately to whispering in doorways;
Which--considering, you know, dear, the _size_ of the two--
Makes a block that one's company _cannot_ get thro';
And a house such as mine is, with door-ways so small,
Has no room for such cumbersome love-work at all.--
(Apropos, tho', of love-work--you've heard it, I hope,
That Napoleon's old mother's to marry the Pope,--
"What a comical pair!)--but, to stick to my Rout,
'Twill be hard if some novelty can't be struck out.
Is there no Algerine, no Kamchatkan arrived?
No Plenipo Pacha, three-tailed and ten-wived?
No Russian whose dissonant consonant name
Almost rattles to fragments the trumpet of fame?
I remember the time three or four winters back,
When--provided their wigs were but decently black--
A few Patriot monsters from Spain were a sight
That would people one's house for one, night after night.
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