And folly as it flies. There's field enough for both to _beat_ Employment for our hands, eyes, feet, To mark the quarry down, _Black game_ and white game a full crop, Fine birds, fine feathers for to lop, In country and in town. ~8~~ New city _specs_, new west-end rigs, New gas-blown boots, new steam-curl'd wigs, New fashionable schools, New dandies, and new Bond-street dons, And new intrigues, and new crim cons, New companies of fools.{4} Maria Foote and Edmund Kean, The "lions" just now of the scene, Shall yield to newer fun; For all our wonders at the best Are cast off for a newer vest, After a nine days' run. Old beaux at Bath, manoeuvring belles, And pump-room puppies, Melsom swells, And Mr. _Heaviside_,{5} And Cheltenham carders,{6} every _runt_, 4 See note 3, page 6. 5 Mr. Heaviside, the polite M. C. of Bath. He has the finest cauliflower head of hair I over remember; but it covers a world of wit, for all that, and therefore however it may appear, it certainly is not the heavy side of him. 6 Cards, cards, cards, nothing but cards from "rosy morn to dewy eve" at the town of Cheltenham. Whist, with the sun shining upon their sovereigns, one would think a sovereign remedy for their waste of the blessed day--_ecarte_, whilst the blue sky is mocking the blue countenances of your thirty pound losers in as many seconds. Is it not marvellous? Fathers, husbands, men who profess to belong to the Church. By Jupiter! instead of founding the new university they talk about, they had better make it for the pupilage of perpetual card-players, and let them take their degrees by the cleverness in odd tricks, or their ability in shuffling. "No offence, Gregory." "No wonder they have their decrepit ones, their ranters." ~9~~ The playhouse, Berkeley, and "the hunt," With Marshall{7} by their side. All these and more I should be loth To let escape from one or both, So saddle for next heat: The bell is rung, the course is cleared, Mount on your hobby, "nought afear'd," _Black-jacket_ can't be beat. "Dum _spiro_ spero" shout, and ride Till you have 'scalp'd old Folly's hide, And none a kiss will waft her; Bind all the fools in your new book, That "I spy!" may lay my hook, And d--n them nicely after. An Honest Reviewer.{8} Given at my friend, "Sir John Barleycorn's" Chambers, Tavistock, Covent Garden, this the 19th, day of February, 1825, "almost at odds with morning."