Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's debt, Our little riots just to show we're free men, Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women, All these I can forgive, and those forget, And greatly venerate our recent glories, And wish they were not owing to the Tories. L. But to my tale of Laura,--for I find Digression is a sin, that by degrees Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind, And, therefore, may the reader too displease-- The gentle reader, who may wax unkind, And caring little for the Author's ease, Insist on knowing what he means--a hard And hapless situation for a Bard. LI. Oh! that I had the art of easy writing What should be easy reading! could I scale Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing Those pretty poems never known to fail, How quickly would I print (the world delighting) A Grecian, Syrian,[221] or _Ass_yrian tale; And sell you, mixed with western Sentimentalism, Some samples of the _finest Orientalism._ LII. But I am but a nameless sort of person, (A broken Dandy[222] lately on my travels) And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on, The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels, And when I can't find that, I put a worse on, Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils; I've half a mind to tumble down to prose, But verse is more in fashion--so here goes! LIII. The Count and Laura made their new arrangement, Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do, For half a dozen years without estrangement; They had their little differences, too; Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant; In such affairs there probably are few Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble, From sinners of high station to the rabble. LIV. But, on the whole, they were a happy pair, As happy as unlawful love could make them; The gentleman was fond, the lady fair, Their chains so slight, 'twas not worth while to break them: The World beheld them with indulgent air; The pious only wished "the Devil take them!" He took them not; he very often waits, And leaves old sinners to be young ones' baits. LV. But they were young: Oh! what without our Youth Would Love be! What would Youth be without Love! Youth lends its joy, and sweetness, vigour, truth, Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above; But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth-- One of few things Experience don't improve; Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows Are always so preposterously jealous. LVI.