For observe the more low all her merits they place,
The more they make out the miraculous case,
And the more all good Christians must deem it profane
To disturb such a prodigy's marvellous reign.
As for scriptural proofs, he quite placed beyond doubt
That the whole in the Apocalypse may be found out,
As clear and well-proved, he would venture to swear,
As anything else has been _ever_ found there:--
While the mode in which, bless the dear fellow, he deals
With that whole lot of vials and trumpets and seals,
And the ease with which vial on vial he strings,
Shows him quite a _first-rate_ at all these sort of things.
So much for theology:--as for the affairs
Of this temporal world--the light drawing-room cares
And gay toils of the toilet, which, God knows, I seek,
From no love of such things, but in humbleness meek,
And to be, as the Apostle, was, "weak with the weak,"
Thou wilt find quite enough (till I'm somewhat less busy)
In the extracts inclosed, my dear news-loving Lizzy.
EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY.
_Thursday_.
Last night, having naught more holy to do,
Wrote a letter to dear Sir Andrew Agnew,
About the "Do-nothing-on-Sunday-club,"
Which we wish by some shorter name to dub:--
As the use of more vowels and Consonants
Than a Christian on Sunday _really_ wants,
Is a grievance that ought to be done away,
And the Alphabet left to rest, that day.
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