But his smiling, alas! could no longer deceive-- I fell back on BOB--my whole heart seem'd to wither, And, pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither! I only remember that BOB, as I caught him, With cruel facetiousness said--"Curse the Kiddy, A staunch Revolutionist always I've thought him, But now I find out he's a COUNTER one, BIDDY!" Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known To that saucy satirical thing, MISS MALONE! What a story 't will be at Shandangen forever! What laughs and what quizzing she'll have with the men! It will spread through the country--and never, oh never Can BIDDY be seen at Kilrandy again! Farewell--I shall do something desperate, I fear-- And ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear, One tear of compassion my DOLL will not grudge To her poor--broken-hearted--young friend, BIDDY FUDGE Nota Bene,--I'm sure you will hear with delight, That we're going, all three, to see BRUNET to-night A laugh will revive me--and kind Mr. Cox (Do you know him?) has got us the Governor's box. [Illustration: POPE.] THE LITERARY LADY. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex, Whom maids and metaphors conspire to vex! In studious dishabille behold her sit, A lettered gossip and a household wit; At once invoking, though for different views, Her gods, her cook, her milliner and muse. Bound her strewed room a frippery chaos lies, A checkered wreck of notable and wise, Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass, Oppress the toilet and obscure the glass; Unfinished here an epigram is laid, And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid. There new-born plays foretaste the town's applause, There dormant patterns pine for future gauze. A moral essay now is all her care, A satire next, and then a bill of fare. A scene she now projects, and now a dish; Here Act the First, and here, Remove with Fish. Now, while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls, That soberly casts up a bill for coals; Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks, And tears, and threads, and bowls, and thimbles mix. NETLEY ABBEY. [Footnote: A noted ruin, much frequented by pleasure-parties.] R. HARRIS RARHAM I saw thee, Netley, as the sun Across the western wave Was sinking slow, And a golden glow To thy roofless towers he gave; And the ivy sheen With its mantle of green That wrapt thy walls around, Shone lovehly bright In that glorious light, And I felt 't was holy ground. Then I thought of the ancient time-- The days of thy monks of old,-- When to matin, and vesper, and compline chime, The loud Hosanna roll'd, And, thy courts and "long-drawn aisles" among, Swell'd the full tide of sacred song.