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Eve of the land which still is Paradise !
Italian beauty! didst thou not inspire Raphael, 4 who died in thy embrace, and vies
With all we know of Heaven, or can desire, In what he hath bequeath'd us ?-in what guise,
Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre, Would words describe thy past and present glow, While yet Canova can create below ?*
(In talking thus, the writer, more especially
Of women, would be understood to say, He speaks as a spectator, not officially,
And always, reader, in a modest way; Perhaps, too, in no very great degree shall he
Appear to have offended in this lay, Since, as all know, without the sex, our sonnets Would seem unfinish'd like their untrimm'd bonnets.)
(Signed) PRINTER'S Devil,
„England! with all thy faults I love thee still,
I said at Calais, and have not forgot it; I like to speak and lucubrate my fill;
I like the government (but that is not it); I like the freedom of the press and quill;,
I like the Habeas Corpus (when we've got it); I like a parliamentary debate, Particularly when 'tis not too late;
I like the taxes, when they're not too many;
I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear;
Have no objection to a pot of beer;
That is, I like two months of every year.
Our standing army, and disbanded seamen,
Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's debt, Our little riots just to show we are frec men,
Our trifting bankruptcies in the Gazette,
But to my tale of Laura,-for I find
Digression is a sin, that by degrees Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind,
And, therefore, may the reader too displease The gentle reader, who may wax unkind,
And caring little for the author's ease, Insist on knowing what he means, a hard And hapless situation for a bard.
Oh that I had the art of easy writing
What should be casy reading! could I scale Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing
Those pretty poems never known to fail, How quickly would I print (the world delighting)
A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale; And sell you, mix'd with western sentimentalism, Some samples of the finest Orientalism.
But I am but a nameless sort of person,
( A broken Dandy lately on my travels) And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse
Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils;
The Count and La122 made their ner arrangement,
Which lasted, as arangements sometimes do For hafa dozen years without estrangement;
They had their little aferences, too; Teose jealons whills, which derer ay change
In such is there probably are few Who have not bad this ponting sort of squabble, From sinners of high station to the rabble.
But on the whole, they were a happy pair,
As happy as unlawfal love could make them; The gentleman was fond, the lady fair, Their chains so slight, 'twas not worth while to
break them: The world beheld them with indulgent air;
The pious only wishid , the devil take them!" He took them not; he very often waits, And leaves old sinners to be young ones' baits.