Ancient Dandies.--A Confession. The Doctor{*}, as we learn, once said, To Mistress Thrale-- Howe'er a man be stoutly made, And free from ail, In flesh and bone, and colour thrive, "He's going down at 35." Yet Horace could his vigour muster And would not till a later lustre f One single inch of ground surrender To any swain in Cupid's calendar. But one I think a jot too low, And t'other is too high, I know. Yet, what I've found, I'll freely state-- The thing may do till.-- But that's a job--for then, in truth, One's but a clumsy sort of youth: And maugre looks, some evil tongue Will say the Dandy is not young:-- For 'mid the yellow and the sear, {**} Though here and there a leaf be green No more the summer of the year It is, than when one swallow's seen. * Johnson. t---------------------fuge suspicari Cujus octavum trepidavit otas Claudere lustrum.--Od. 4.1. ii. Now tottering on to forty years, My age forbids all jealous fears. ** "My May of life is fallen into the sear and yellow leaf."--Macbeth. ~188~~ Pinch'd in behind and 'fore? Whose visage, like La Mancha's chief, Seems the pale frontispiece to grief, As if 'twould ne'er laugh more: Whose dress and person both defy The poet's pen, the painter's eye, 'Tis _outre tout nature_. His Arab charger swings his tail, Curvets and prances to the gale Like Death's pale horse,-- And neighing proudly seems to say, Here Fashion's vot'ries must pay Homage of course: Tis P-h-m, whom Mrs. H-g-s At opera and play-house dodges Since he gain'd Josephine; Tailors adorn a thousand ways, And (though Time won't) men may make Slays; The dentist, barber, make repairs, New teeth supply, and colour hairs; But art can ne'er return the Spring-- And spite of all that she can do, _A Beau's_ a very wretched thing At 42!