Witness how Beazley vents upon his hat His nervousness, meanwhile his fate is dealt He kneads, molds, pummels it, and sits it flat, Squeezes and twists it up, until the felt, That went a beaver in, comes out a rat! Miss Mitford had mis-givings, and in fright, Upon Rienzi's night, Gnawed up one long kid glove, and all her bag, Quite to a rag. Knowles has confessed he trembled as for life, Afraid of his own "Wife;" Poole told me that he felt a monstrous pail Of water backing him, all down his spine-- "The ice-brook's temper"--pleasant to the chine! For fear that Simpson and his Co. should fail. Did Lord Glengall not frame a mental prayer, Wishing devoutly he was Lord knows where? Nay, did not Jerrold, in enormous drouth, While doubtful of Nell Gwynne's eventful luck, Squeeze out and suck More oranges with his one fevered mouth Than Nelly had to hawk from north to south? Yea, Buckstone, changing color like a mullet, Refused, on an occasion, once, twice, thrice, From his best friend, an ice, Lest it should hiss in his own red-hot gullet. Doth punning Peake not sit upon the points Of his own jokes, and shake in all his joints, During their trial? 'Tis past denial. And does not Pocock, feeling, like a peacock, All eyes upon him, turn to very meacock? And does not Planche, tremulous and blank, Meanwhile his personages tread the boards, Seem goaded by sharp swords, And called upon himself to "walk the plank?" As for the Dances, Charles and George to boot, What have they more Of ease and rest, for sole of either foot, Than bear that capers on a hotted floor! Thus pending--does not Matthews, at sad shift For voice, croak like a frog in waters fenny?-- Serle seem upon the surly seas adrift?-- And Kenny think he's going to Kilkenny?-- Haynes Bayly feel Old ditto, with the note Of Cotton in his ear, a mortal grapple About his arms, and Adam's apple Big as a fine Dutch codling in his throat? Did Rodwell, on his chimney-piece, desire Or not to take a jump into the fire? Did Wade feel as composed as music can? And was not Bernard his own Nervous Man? Lastly, don't Farley, a bewildered elf, Quake at the Pantomime he loves to cater, And ere its changes ring transform himself? A frightful mug of human delf? A spirit-bottle--empty of "the cratur"? A leaden-platter ready for the shelf? A thunderstruck dumb-waiter? To clench the fact, Myself, once guilty of one small rash act, Committed at the Surrey, Quite in a hurry, Felt all this flurry, Corporal worry, And spiritual scurry, Dram-devil--attic curry! All going well, From prompter's bell, Until befell A hissing at some dull imperfect dunce-- There's no denying I felt in all four elements at once! My head was swimming, while my arms were flying! My legs for running--all the rest was frying!