--
But in short, dear, I'm trickt out quite _a la Francaise_,
With my bonnet--so beautiful!--high up and poking,
Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.
Where _shall_ I begin with the endless delights
Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys and sights--
This dear busy place, where there's nothing transacting
But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?
Imprimis, the Opera--mercy, my ears!
Brother BOBBY'S remark, t'other night, was a true one:--
"This _must_ be the music," said he, "of the _spears_,
For I'm curst if each note of it doesn't run thro' one!"
Pa says (and you know, love, his Book's to make out
'Twas the Jacobins brought every mischief about)
That this passion for roaring has come in of late,
Since the rabble all tried for a _voice_ in the State.--
What a frightful idea, one's mind to o'erwhelm!
What a chorus, dear DOLLY, would soon be let loose of it,
If, when of age, every man in the realm
Had a voice like old LAIS,[1] and chose to make use of it!
No--never was known in this riotous sphere
Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear.
So bad too, you'd swear that the God of both arts,
Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic
For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts,
And composing a fine rumbling bass to a cholic!
But, the dancing--_ah parlez-moi_, DOLLY, _de ca_--
There, _indeed_, is a treat that charms all but Papa.
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