Witness how Beazley vents upon his hat His nervousness, meanwhile his fate is dealt: He kneads, moulds, 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, Gnaw’d up one long kid glove, and all her bag, Quite to a rag. Knowles has confess’d 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 pray’r, 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 colour 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. X. 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 Planché, tremulous and blank, Meanwhile his personages tread the boards, Seem goaded by sharp swords, And call’d 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? XI. Thus pending--does not Mathews, 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 apples 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? XII.