Gloves languish and fade away pair after pair,
While couplets shine out, but the brighter for wear,
And the dancing-shoe's gloss in an evening is gone,
While light-footed lyrics thro' ages trip on.
The remaining expense, trouble, risk--and, alas!
My poor copyright too--into other hands pass;
And my friend, the Head Devil of the "_County Gazette_"
(The only Mecaenas I've ever had yet),
He who set up in type my first juvenile lays,
Is now see up by them for the rest of his days;
And while Gods (as my "Heathen Mythology" says)
Live on naught but ambrosia, _his_ lot how much sweeter
To live, lucky devil, on a young lady's metre!
As for _puffing_--that first of all literary boons,
And essential alike both to bards and balloons,
As, unless well supplied with inflation, 'tis found
Neither bards nor balloons budge an inch from the ground;--
In _this_ respect, naught could more prosperous befall;
As my friend (for no less this kind imp can I call)
Knows the whole would of critics--the _hypers_ and all.
I suspect he himself, indeed, dabbles in rhyme,
Which, for imps diabolic, is not the first time;
As I've heard uncle Bob say, 'twas known among Gnostics,
That the Devil on Two Sticks was a devil at Acrostics.
But hark! there's the Magnet just dasht in from Town--
How my heart, Kitty, beats! I shall surely drop down.
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