On the receipt of this note, which I have now in my possession, I got into a rage with old purblind Murray. "I wish," thought I, "I wish I could make rhymes! I would send him a copy of verses to thank him." The worst of it was I had never made a single rhyme in my life, and, when I had tried to make two lines jingle together, everybody said they had the merit of being infinitely below par; but even that I considered very much better than vile mediocrity in poetry. In short there was no rhyme about them and very little reason. However, I thought that anything would do for Murray, who had been so rude to me; therefore, in a few minutes, I managed to compose and seal up the following state of the case,--which said composition my reader cannot say I have encouraged him to lose time in perusing. THE MAIDEN EFFORT OF A VIRGIN MUSE. I never thought of turning poet, And all my friends about me know it, Till t'other day. I'll tell you why. Alas! the story makes me sigh! I tried, in prose, a few light sketches, Of characters--pats, players, and such wretches, Which my own folks said were pretty: In fact, I thought them downright witty; And, for the good of future ages, I sallied forth, with these few pages, To a publisher's, in such a hurry, As to arrive too soon for that beau-thing, Murray, Who coolly kept the lady waiting. An old beau must have time for prating. At last he came. Oh, mercy! Oh, my stars! What an appalling beau-costume he wears! A powdered bob, spectacles, and black coat! I wish to heaven I had never wrote! Or ta'en my book, so not here, anywhere, Sure this won't do! The man's a bore or bear! My charms to him were nought: nor my oration: But what care I for Murray's admiration! If I had penned some _Quarterly_ cupidity, He would have gladly borne with its stupidity. "At length, Sir," cried I, in a fuming rage, "Pray, just peruse, at least, a single page." With a most supercilious kind of glance, "Hum," drawled out Murray, "you've not the slightest chance." "Pray, Sir, must one come here in a bob-wig?" Cried I, in my turn, striving to look big; And then went home to mourn my waste of paper, Pens, ink, time, and e'en my last wax taper. Prosers, methought, require an education; But poets gain, by birth, their own vocation. I merely pin it into my manuscript because it is ready written, and helps to fill up the book, which, I have undertaken for several reasons: first, because I hope to get some money by it; secondly, because a certain duke and his son, all! all! honourable men, and with very honourable titles and ancient names, have taken such an unfair advantage of my generous treatment of them, that I think they ought to be exposed---- Else they will deceive more men.