Oh, Mr. Perceval! I’ll bet a dollar, a Great growth of Cholera, And new deaths reckon’d, Will mark thy Lenten twenty-first and second. The best of our physicians, when they con it, Depose the malady is in the air: Oh, Mr. Spencer! if the ill _is_ there, Why should you bid the people live upon it? Why should you make discourses against courses, While doctors, though they bid us rub and chafe, Declare, of all resources, The man is safest who gets in the safe? And yet you bid poor suicidal sinners Discard their dinners, Thoughtless how Heaven above will look upon’t, For man to die so wantonly of want! By way of a variety, Think of the ineffectual piety Of London’s Bishop, at St. Faith’s or Bride’s, Lecturing such chamelion insides, Only to find He’s preaching to the wind. Whatever others do,--or don’t, I cannot--dare not--must not fast, and won’t, Unless by night your day you let me keep, And _fast_ asleep; My constitution can’t obey such censors: I must have meat Three times a-day to eat; My health’s of such a sort,-- To say the truth, in short, The _coats_ of my stomach are not _Spencers_! TO MISS KELLY. ON HER OPENING THE STRAND THEATRE. O Betty--I beg pardon--Fanny K. (I was just thinking of your Betty Finnikin)-- Permit me this to say, In quite a friendly way-- I like your theatre, though but a minnikin; For though small stages Kean dislikes to spout on, Renounce me if I don’t agree with Dowton, The Minors are the Passions’ proper schools For me, I never can Find wisdom in the plan That keeps large reservoirs for little Pooles. I like your boxes where the audience sit A family circle; and your little pit; I like your little stage, where you discuss Your pleasant bill of fare, And show us passengers so rich and rare, Your little stage seems quite an omnibus. I like exceedingly your Parthian dame, Dimly remembering dramatic codgers, The ghost of Memory--the shade of Fame!-- Lord! what a housekeeper for Mr. Rogers! I like your savage, of a one-horse power; And Terence, done in Irish from the Latin; And Sally--quite a kitchen-garden flower; And Mrs. Drake, serene in sky-blue satin! I like your girl as speechless as a mummy-- It shows you can play dummy!-- I like your boy, deprived of every gleam Of light for ever--a benighted being! And really think--though Irish it may seem-- Your blindness is worth seeing.