Ah happy time! when wolves and priests
Alike were hunted, as wild beasts;
And five pounds was the price, _per_ head,
For bagging _either_, live or dead;--[1]
Tho' oft, we're told, _one_ outlawed brother
Saved cost, by eating up _the other_,
Finding thus all those schemes and hopes
I built upon my flowers and tropes
All scattered, one by one, away,
As flashy and unsound as they,
The question comes--what's to be done?
And there's but one course left me--_one_.
Heroes, when tired of war's alarms,
Seek sweet repose in Beauty's arms.
The weary Day-God's last retreat is
The breast of silvery-footed Thetis;
And mine, as mighty Love's my judge,
Shall be the arms of rich Miss Fudge!
Start not, my friend,--the tender scheme,
Wild and romantic tho' it seem,
Beyond a parson's fondest dream,
Yet shines, too, with those golden dyes,
So pleasing to a parson's eyes
That only _gilding_ which the Muse
Can not around _her_ sons diffuse:--
Which, whencesoever flows its bliss,
From wealthy Miss or benefice,
To Mortimer indifferent is,
So he can only make it _his_.
There is but one slight damp I see
Upon this scheme's felicity,
And that is, the fair heroine's claim
That I shall take _her_ family name.
To this (tho' it may look henpeckt),
I can't quite decently object,
Having myself long chosen to shine
Conspicuous in the _alias_[2] line;
So that henceforth, by wife's decree,
(For Biddy from this point won't budge)
Your old friend's new address must be
The _Rev.
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