If to form and distinction, in town you would bow, Let appearance of wealth be your care: If your friends see you live, not a creature cares how, The question will only be, Where? A circus, a polygon, crescent, or place, With ideas of magnificence tally; Squares are common, streets queer, but a lane's a disgrace; And we've no such thing as an alley. A first floor's pretty well, and a parlour so so; But, pray, who can give themselves airs, Or mix with high folks, if so vulgarly low To live up in a two pair of stairs? The garret, excuse me, I mean attic floor, (That's the name, and it's right you should know it,) Would he tenantless often; but genius will soar, And it does very well for a poet. These amusements of the table were succeeded by a most stormy and lengthened debate, (to use a parliamentary phrase) during which, Bob's London friend had with daring heroism opposed the whole of the party, in supporting the superiority of Life in London over every pleasure the country could afford. After copious libations to Bacchus, whose influence at length effected what oratory had in vain essayed, and silenced these contending and jarring elements, “grey-eyed Morn” peeped intrusively amid the jovial crew, and Somnus, (with the cart before the horse) stepping softly on tip-toe after his companion, led, if not by, at least accompanied with, the music of the nose, each to his snoring pillow. ----“Glorious resolve!” exclaimed Tom, as soon as his friend had next morning intimated his intention,--“nobly resolved indeed!--“What! shall he whom Nature has formed to shine in the dance and sparkle in the ring--to fascinate the fair--lead and control the fashions--attract the gaze and admiration of the surrounding crowd!--shall he pass a life, or rather a torpid existence, amid country bumpkins and Johnny-raws? Forbid it all ye powers that rule with despotic sway where Life alone is to be found,--forbid it cards--dice--balls--fashion, and ye gay et coteras,--forbid”----“Pon my soul,” interrupted Bob, “you have frightened me to death! I thought you were beginning an Epic,--a thing I abominate of all others. I had rather at any time follow the pack on a foundered horse than read ten lines of Homer; so, my dear fellow, descend for God's sake from the Heroics.” Calmly let me, at least, begin Life's chapter, Not panting for a hurricane of rapture; Calm let me step--not riotous and jumping: With due decorum, let my heart Try to perform a sober part, Not at the ribs be ever bumping--bumping. Rapture's a charger--often breaks his girt, Runs oft”, and flings his rider in the dirt.