Heav'n help thee, boy, we are not they Who only go to damn a play, And cackle in the pit; Like good Sir William Curtis{2} we Can laugh at _nous_ and drollery, Though of ourselves 'twere writ. Was yours but sky blue milk and water, We'd hand you over to the slaughter Of cow committee-men{3}; For butterflies, and "such small deer," Are much beneath our potent spear-- The sharp gray goose-wing'd pen. 1 See my friend Bernard's _cracker_ to the reviewers in No. 12, a perfect fifth of November bit of _firework_, I can assure you, good people. But it won't go off with me without a brand from the bonfire in return. "Bear this bear all." 2 Have you ever dared the "salt sea ocean," my readers, with the alderman admiral? If not, know that he has as pretty a collection of caricatures in his cabin, and all against his own sweet self, as need be wished to heal sea-sickness. Is not this magnanimity? I think so. The baronet is really "a worthy gentleman." 3 Vide advertisements of "Alderney Milk Company." What company shall we keep next, my masters? Mining companies, or steam brick companies, or washing companies? How many of them will be in the suds anon? Pshaw! throw physic to the projectors--I prefer strong beer well hopped. But yours we feel is sterner stuff, And though perchance _too much in huff_, _More natural_ you will swear; It really shows such game and pluck, That we could take with you "pot luck," And deem it decent fare. But, 'pon our _conscience_, bonny lad, (We've got _some_, boy), it is too bad So fiercely to show fight; Gadzooks, 'tis time when comes the foe To strip and sport a word and blow, My dear pugnacious wight! 'Tis very wise, T own, to pull Fast by the horns some butting bull, When 'gainst yourself he flies; But to attack that sturdy beast, When he's no thoughts on you to feast, Is very _otherwise_. But we'll forgive your paper balls, Which on our jackets hurtless falls, Like hail upon a tower: Pray put wet blankets on your ire; Really, good sir, we've no desire To blight so smart a flower. Well, then, I see no reason why There should be war, good Mister Spy So, faith! we'll be allies; And if we must have fights and frays, We'll shoot at pride and poppinjays,