I sent it in a letter to the Editor, Who thanked me duly by return of post-- I'm for a handsome article his creditor; Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast, And break a promise after having made it her, Denying the receipt of what it cost, And smear his page with gall instead of honey, All I can say is--that he had the money. CCXI. I think that with this holy _new_ alliance I may ensure the public, and defy All other magazines of art or science, Daily, or monthly, or three monthly; I Have not essayed to multiply their clients, Because they tell me 't were in vain to try, And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly Treat a dissenting author very martyrly. CCXII. "_Non ego hoc ferrem calidus juventâ Consule Planco_"[88] Horace said, and so Say I; by which quotation there is meant a Hint that some six or seven good years ago (Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta) I was most ready to return a blow, And would not brook at all this sort of thing In my hot youth--when George the Third was King. CCXIII. But now at thirty years my hair is grey-- (I wonder what it will be like at forty? I thought of a peruke the other day--)[av] My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I Have squandered my whole summer while 't was May, And feel no more the spirit to retort; I Have spent my life, both interest and principal, And deem not, what I deemed--my soul invincible. CCXIV. No more--no more--Oh! never more on me The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, Which out of all the lovely things we see Extracts emotions beautiful and new, Hived[89] in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee. Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew? Alas! 't was not in them, but in thy power To double even the sweetness of a flower. CCXV. No more--no more--Oh! never more, my heart, Canst thou be my sole world, my universe! Once all in all, but now a thing apart, Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse: The illusion's gone for ever, and thou art Insensible, I trust, but none the worse, And in thy stead I've got a deal of judgment, Though Heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment. CCXVI. My days of love are over; me no more[90] The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow, Can make the fool of which they made before,-- In short, I must not lead the life I did do; The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er, The copious use of claret is forbid too, So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice. CCXVII.