Look at Bob Lily! There lives no finer poet! Epic, elegiac, satiric, Pindaric--it is all one to him! He is patronized by all the first people in town. Everybody compliments him, everybody asks him to dinner. Nay! there are a few who read him. He excels alike in tragedy and farce, and is without a rival in amphibious dramas, which may be called either the one or the other; but he is a sad bungler in negatives. “Mr. Lily,” says the Duchess, his patroness, “you will be sure to bring that dear epithalamium to my conversazione this evening!” “There is no denying your Grace,” says the poet. “I say, Lily,” says the Duke, his patron, “you will dine with us at seven?” “Your Grace does me honour,” says the poet. “Bob,” says the young Marquis, “you are for Brookes’s to-night?” “Dam’me! to be sure,” says the poet. Mark the result. He is gone to eat tripe with his tyrannical bookseller; he has disappointed his patroness, he has offended his patron, he has cut the Club! How unlucky that he cannot say “No.” * * * * * Jack Shuttle was a dashing young fellow, who, to use his own expression, was “above denying a thing;” in plainer terms, he could not say “No.” “Sir!” says an enraged Tory, “you are the author of this pamphlet!” Jack never saw the work, but he was “above denying a thing,” and was horsewhipped for a libeller. “Sir!” says an unfortunate pigeon, “you hid the king in your sleeve last night!” Jack never saw the pigeon before, but he was “above denying a thing,” and was cut for a blackleg. “Sir!” says a hot Hibernian, “you insulted my sister in the Park!” Jack never saw the lady or her champion before, but he was “above denying a thing,” and was shot through the head the next morning. Poor fellow! How unlucky that he could not say “No!”