Thy face a rich fire-place displays: The mantel-piece marble—thy brows; Thine eyes are the bright beaming blaze; Thy bib, which no trespass allows, The fender’s tall barrier marks; Thy tippet’s the fire-quelling rug, Which serves to extinguish the sparks Of Lady Elizabeth Mugg. VI. The Countess a lily appears, Whose tresses the pearl-drops emboss; The Marchioness, blooming in years, A rose-bud enveloped in moss; But thou art the sweet passion-flower, For who would not slavery hug, To pass but one exquisite hour In the arms of Elizabeth Mugg? VII. When at Court, or some Dowager’s rout, Her diamond aigrette meets our view, She looks like a glow-worm dressed out, Or tulips bespangled with dew. Her two lips denied to man’s suit Are shared with her favourite Pug; What lord would not change with the brute, To live with Elizabeth Mugg? VIII. Could the stage be a large vis-à-vis, Reserved for the polished and great, Where each happy lover might see The nymph he adores tête-à-tête; No longer I’d gaze on the ground, And the load of despondency lug, For I’d book myself all the year round To ride with the sweet Lady Mugg. IX. Yes, she in herself is a host, And if she were here all alone, Our house might nocturnally boast A bumper of fashion and ton. Again should it burst in a blaze, In vain would they ply Congreve’s plug, {59} For nought could extinguish the rays From the glance of divine Lady Mugg. X. O could I as Harlequin frisk, And thou be my Columbine fair, My wand should with one magic whisk Transport us to Hanover Square: St. George’s should lend us its shrine, The parson his shoulders might shrug, But a licence should force him to join My hand in the hand of my Mugg. XI. Court-plaster the weapons should tip, By Cupid shot down from above, Which, cut into spots for thy lip, Should still barb the arrows of love. The God who from others flies quick, With us should be slow as a slug; As close as a leech he should stick To me and Elizabeth Mugg. XII. For Time would, with us, ’stead of sand, Put filings of steel in his glass, To dry up the blots of his hand, And spangle life’s page as they pass. Since all flesh is grass ere ’tis hay, {60} O may I in clover live snug, And when old Time mows me away, Be stacked with defunct Lady Mugg! XII. FIRE AND ALE. BY M. G. L. {61} [MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS.]