LETTER VIII.
FROM COLONEL THOMAS TO ---- SKEFFINGTON, ESQ.
Come to our Fete and bring with thee
Thy newest, best embroidery.
Come to our Fete and show again
That pea-green coat, thou pink of men,
Which charmed all eyes that last surveyed it;
When Brummel's self inquired "who made it?"--
When Cits came wondering from the East
And thought thee Poet Pye _at least_!
Oh! come, (if haply 'tis thy week
For looking pale,) with paly cheek;
Tho' more we love thy roseate days,
When the rich rouge-pot pours its blaze
Full o'er thy face and amply spread,
Tips even thy whisker-tops with red--
Like the last tints of dying Day
That o'er some darkling grove delay.
Bring thy best lace, thou gay Philander,
(That lace, like Harry Alexander,
Too precious to be washt,) thy _rings_,
Thy seals--in short, thy prettiest things!
Put all thy wardrobe's glories on,
And yield in frogs and fringe to none
But the great Regent's self alone;
Who--by particular desire--
_For that night only_, means to hire
A dress from, Romeo Coates, Esquire.[1]
Hail, first of Actors! best of Regents!
Born for each other's fond allegiance!
_Both_ gay Lotharios--both good dressers--
Of serious Farce _both_ learned Professors--
_Both_ circled round, for use or show,
With cock's combs, wheresoe'er they go![2]
Thou knowest the time, thou man of lore!
It takes to chalk a ball-room floor--
Thou knowest the time, too, well-a-day!
It takes to dance that chalk away.
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