This fact, we see, is a parallel case
To the dinner that some weeks since took place.
With the difference slight of fiend and man,
It shows what a nest of Popish sinners
That city must be, where the devil and Dan
May thus drop in at quadrilles and dinners!
But mark the end of these foul proceedings,
These demon hops and Popish feedings.
Some comfort 'twill be--to those, at least,
Who've studied this awful dinner question--
To know that Dan, on the night of that feast,
Was seized with a dreadful indigestion;
That envoys were sent post-haste to his priest
To come and absolve the suffering sinner,
For eating so much at a heretic dinner;
And some good people were even afraid
That Peel's old confectioner--still at the trade--
Had poisoned the Papist with _orangeade_.
NEW HOSPITAL FOR SICK LITERATI.
With all humility we beg
To inform the public, that Tom Tegg--
Known for his spunky speculations
In buying up dead reputations,
And by a mode of galvanizing
Which, all must own, is quite surprising,
Making dead authors move again,
As tho' they still were living men;--
All this too managed, in a trice,
By those two magic words, "Half Price,"
Which brings the charm so quick about,
That worn-out poets, left without
A second _foot_ whereon to stand,
Are made to go at second _hand_;--
'Twill please the public, we repeat,
To learn that Tegg who works this feat,
And therefore knows what care it needs
To keep alive Fame's invalids,
Has oped an Hospital in town,
For cases of knockt-up renown--
Falls, fractures, dangerous Epic _fits_
(By some called _Cantoes_), stabs from wits;
And of all wounds for which they're nurst,
_Dead cuts_ from publishers, the worst;--
All these, and other such fatalities,
That happen to frail immortalities,
By Tegg are so expertly treated,
That oft-times, when the cure's completed,
The patient's made robust enough
To stand a few more rounds of _puff_,
Till like the ghosts of Dante's lay
He's puft into thin air away!
As titled poets (being phenomenons)
Don't like to mix with low and common 'uns,
Tegg's Hospital has separate wards,
Express for literary lords,
Where _prose_-peers, of immoderate length,
Are nurst, when they've outgrown their strength,
And poets, whom their friends despair of,
Are--put to bed and taken care of.
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