LXXV. One hates an author that's all author, fellows LXXVI Of these same we see several, and of others, Men of the world, who know the world like men, Stt, R-s, M-re, and all the better brothers, LXXIII. No solemn, antique gentleman Of female wits, boy bards LXXVII. The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention Have none of these instructive pleasant people, And one would seem to them a new invention, Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple; I think 'twould almost be worth while to pension (Though best-sown projects very often reap ill) A missionary author, just to preach Our Christian usage of the parts of speech. LXXVIII. No chemistry for them unfolds her gasses, Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures Upon the living manners, as they pass us; No exhibition glares with annual pictures; They stare not on the stars from out their attics, Nor deal (thank God for that!) in mathematics. LXXIX. Why I thank God for that is no great matter, And yet methinks the older that one grows Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laugh ter Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. LXXX. Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! Abominable Man no more allays His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter, I love you both, and both shall have my praise: Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy! Meantime I drink to your return in brandy. |