Monsieur Tonson.

Our sportive wight his usual visit paid,

And the next night came forth a prattling maid, Whose tongue, indeed, than any Jack went faster; Anxious, she strove his errand to enquire,

He said 'twas vain her pretty tongue to tire,

He should not stir till he had seen her master.

The damsel then began, in doleful state;
The Frenchman's broken slumbers to relate,
And begg'd he'd call at proper time of day.
King told her she must fetch her master down,
A chaise was ready, he was leaving town,

But first had much of deep concern to say.

Thus urged, she went the snoring man to call,
And long, indeed, was she obliged to bawl,

Ere she could rouse the torpid lump of clay.
At last he wakes; he rises; and he swears:
But scarcely had he totter'd down the stairs,

When King attack'd him in his usual way.

The Frenchman now perceived 'twas all in vain
To his tormentor mildly to complain,

And straight in rage began his crest to rear: "Sare, vat the devil make you treat me so? Sare, I inform you, sare, three nights ago,

Got tam-I swear, no Monsieur Tonson here!"

True as the night, King went, and heard a strife
Between the harass'd Frenchman and his wife,
Which would descend to chase the fiend away.
At length, to join their forces and agree,
And straight impetuously they turn the key,
Prepared with mutual fury for the fray.

Monsieur Tonson.

Our hero, with the firmness of a rock,
Collected to receive the mighty shock,

Utt'ring the old inquiry, calmly stood-

The name of Thompson raised the storm so high,
He deem'd it then the safest plan to fly,

With "Well, I'll call when you're in gentler mood."

In short, our hero, with the same intent,

Full many a night to plague the Frenchman went—
So fond of mischief was the wicked wit:

They threw out water; for the watch they call;
But King expecting, still escapes from all-
Monsieur at last was forced his house to quit.

It happen'd that our wag, about this time,
On some fair prospect sought the eastern clime,
Six ling'ring years were there his tedious lot.
At length, content, amid his rip'ning store,
He treads again on Britain's happy shore,
And his long absence is at once forgot.

To London, with impatient hope, he flies,
And the same night, as former freaks arise,

He fain must stroll, the well-known haunt to trace. "Ah! here's the scene of frequent mirth," he said, old Frenchman, I suppose, is dead. Egad, I'll knock, and see who holds his place."

66

My poor

With rapid strokes he makes the mansion roar,
And while he eager eyes the opening door,

Lo! who obeys the knocker's rattling peal?
Why, e'en our little Frenchman, strange to say!
He took his old abode that very day—

Capricious turn of sportive Fortune's wheel!

Monsieur Tonson.

Without one thought of the relentless foe,
Who, fiend-like, haunted him so long ago,

Just in his former trim he now appears;
The waistcoat and the nightcap seem'd the same,
With rushlight, as before, he, creeping, came,

And King's detested voice, astonish'd, hears.

As if some hideous spectre struck his sight,
His senses seem'd bewilder'd with affright,

His face, indeed, bespoke a heart full sore-
Then starting, he exclaim'd, in rueful strain,
Begar! here's Monsieur Tonson come again!”
Away he ran—and ne'er was heard of more!

66

THE LITERARY LADY.

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

HAT motley cares Corilla's mind perplex,
Whom maids and metaphors conspire to vex!
In studious dishabille behold her sit,

A letter'd gossip, and a household wit;
At once invoking, though for different views,
Her gods, her cook, her milliner and muse.
Round her strew'd room a frippery chaos lies,

A checker'd wreck of notable and wise,

Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass,
Oppress the toilet and obscure the glass:

The Literary Lady.

Unfinish'd, here an epigram is laid,

And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid.

There new-born plays foretaste the town's applause, There dormant patterns pine for future gauze.

A moral essay now is all her care,

A satire next; and then, a bill of fare.

A scene she now projects, and now a dish;

Here Act the First, and here, Remove with Fish.
Now, while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls,

That soberly casts up a bill for coals;

Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks,

And tears, and threads, and bowls, and thimbles mix.

HO is it that sits in the kitchen, and weeps,
While tick goes the clock, and the tabby cat sleeps ;
That watches the grate, without ceasing to spy,
Whether purses or coffins will out of it fly?"

'Tis Betty; who saw the false tailor, Bob Scott,
Lead a bride to the altar; which bride she was not:
'Tis Betty; determined, love from her to fling,
And woo, for his riches, the dark Cinder-King.