Oh! then she look’d sour, and indeed well she might, For Vinegar Yard was before her; But, spite of her shrieks, the ignipotent knight, Enrobing the maid in a flame of gas light, To the skies in a sky-rocket bore her. Look! look! ’tis the Ale King, so stately and starch, Whose votaries scorn to be sober; He pops from his vat, like a cedar or larch; Brown-stout is his doublet, he hops in his march, And froths at the mouth in October. His spear is a spigot, his shield is a bung; He taps where the housemaid no more is, When lo! at his magical bidding, upsprung A second Miss Drury, tall, tidy, and young, And sported _in loco sororis_. Back, lurid in air, for a second regale, The Cinder King, hot with desire, To Brydges Street hied; but the Monarch of Ale, With uplifted spigot and faucet, and pail, Thus chided the Monarch of Fire: “Vile tyrant, beware of the ferment I brew; I rule the roast here, dash the wig o’ me! If, spite of your marriage with Old Drury, you Come here with your tinderbox, courting the New I’ll have you indicted for bigamy!” XIII. PLAYHOUSE MUSINGS. BY S. T. C. {65} [SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.] [Mr. Coleridge died 25th July, 1814, in his 62nd year.] * * * * * Ille velut fidis arcana sodalibus olim Credebat libris; neque si male cesserat, usquam Decurrens alio, neque si bene. HOR. MY pensive Public, wherefore look you sad? I had a grandmother, she kept a donkey To carry to the mart her crockery ware, And when that donkey look’d me in the face, His face was sad! and you are sad, my Public!