,
Price twenty-four shillings, is all that's required.
They may treat us, like Kelly, with old _jeu-d'esprits_,
Like Dibdin, may tell of each farcical frolic;
Or kindly inform us, like Madame Genlis,[1]
That gingerbread-cakes always give them the colic.
Wanted also a new stock of Pamphlets on Corn
By "Farmers" and "Landholders"--(worthies whose lands
Enclosed all in bow-pots their attics adorn,
Or whose share of the soil maybe seen on their hands).
No-Popery Sermons, in ever so dull a vein,
Sure of a market;--should they too who pen 'em
Be renegade Papists, like Murtagh O'Sullivan,[2]
Something _extra_ allowed for the additional venom.
Funds, Physics, Corn, Poetry, Boxing, Romance,
All excellent subjects for turning a penny;--
To write upon _all_ is an author's sole chance
For attaining, at last, the least knowledge of _any_.
Nine times out of ten, if his _title_ is good,
The material _within_ of small consequence is;--
Let him only write fine, and, if not understood,
Why--that's the concern of the reader, not his.
_Nota Bene_--an Essay, now printing, to show,
That Horace (as clearly as words could express it)
Was for taxing the Fund-holders, ages ago,
When he wrote thus--"Quodcunque _in Fund is, assess it."_
[1] This lady also favors us, in her Memoirs, with the address of those
apothecaries, who have, from time to time, given her pills that agreed
with her; always desiring that the pills should be ordered "_comme pour
elle_.
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