"Oh you, who in all names can tickle the town, Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown,-- For hang me if I know of which you may most brag, Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Twopenny Post Bag; * * * * But now to my letter--to yours 'tis an answer-- To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir, All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on (According to compact) the wit in the dungeon-- Pray Phoebus at length our political malice May not get us lodgings within the same palace! I suppose that to-night you're engaged with some codgers, And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers; And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got, Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote. But to-morrow at four, we will both play the Scurra, And you'll be Catullus, the R----t Mamurra. "Dear M.--having got thus far, I am interrupted by * * * *. 10 o'clock. "Half-past 11. * * * * is gone. I must dress for Lady Heathcote's.--Addio." * * * * * Our day in the prison was, if not agreeable, at least novel and odd. I had, for Lord Byron's sake, stipulated with our host beforehand, that the party should be, as much as possible, confined to ourselves; and, as far as regarded dinner, my wishes had been attended to;--there being present, besides a member or two of Mr. Hunt's own family, no other stranger, that I can recollect, but Mr. Mitchell, the ingenious translator of Aristophanes. Soon after dinner, however, there dropped in some of our host's literary friends, who, being utter strangers to Lord Byron and myself, rather disturbed the ease into which we were all settling. Among these, I remember, was Mr. John Scott,--the writer, afterwards, of some severe attacks on Lord Byron; and it is painful to think that, among the persons then assembled round the poet, there should have been _one_ so soon to step forth the assailant of his living fame, while _another_, less manful, was to reserve the cool venom for his grave.