--Young ladies making tea, and young
gentlemen making the agreeable.--The stableboy handing rout-cakes.--
Music expressive of there being nothing to do.
I play a spade--such strange new faces
Are flocking in from near and far:
Such frights--Miss Dobbs holds all the aces.--
One can't imagine who they are!
The lodgings at enormous prices,
New donkeys, and another fly--
And Madame Bonbon out of ices,
Although we're scarcely in July--
We're quite as sociable as any,
But our old horse can hardly crawl--
And really where there are so many,
We can't tell where we ought to call.
Pray who has seen the odd old fellow
Who took the Doctor's house last week?--
A pretty chariot,--livery yellow,
Almost as yellow as his cheek--
A widower, sixty-five, and surly,
And stiffer than a poplar-tree--
Drinks rum and water, gets up early
To dip his carcass in the sea--
He's always in a monstrous hurry,
And always talking of Bengal;
They say his cook makes noble curry--
I think, Louisa, we should call.
And so Miss Jones, the mantua-maker,
Has let her cottage on the hill?--
The drollest man, a sugar-baker,
Last year imported from the till--
Prates of his _orses_ and his _oney_,
Is quite in love with fields and farms--
A horrid Vandal,--but his money
Will buy a glorious coat of arms;
Old Clyster makes him take the waters;
Some say he means to give a ball--
And after all, with thirteen daughters,
I think, Sir Thomas, you might call.
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