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HOLLY - GR O V E.

AN

EPITHALAMIC SATIRE.

CANTO III.

"TWAS post meridiem-the clock struck four,
When, widely, open'd every breakfast-door.
Eight splendid rooms, interminably, shone,
Reflecting endless beauties all their own.
Mine host, and hostess, saw no vacant seat,
Nor were their tenants slow to drink, and eat;
In truth, they did such justice to the fare,
That, while they fed, they took no time to stare :
They only ceas'd to eat, their drink to quaff,
And fill'd each interval, with hearty laugh.

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The first slight pause, majestic Sussex rose,

And bow'd, and fed, and blew his royal nose

Told flattering tales, which buzz'd through ev'ry room-
A health-The lovely bride, and her bride-groom:

And, delicately, with poetic flight,

Passing the honey-moon, and bridal night,

With virgin favors, clustering, and white—

Wished them long years, and free from ev'ry pain,
And ev'ry pleasure, ten times o'er again;

But not a hint was giv'n, of son and heir.

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All gormandising, jeer'd, save one ;-sad, soft Béauclerc.

Hark! how the tutor'd babe aspir'd to praise,

For sing-song-prose, or prosy-rhymish lays
Blush'd, and turn'd pale, with bashfulness, and fear,
His trembling voice, at such a scene, to hear—
Was happy, far beyond his pow'rs to tell,

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And thank'd his guests, and wish'd them all-in hell.
Would, if I could; but cannot, that I know,
Win the prime flitch of bacon, from Dunmow.
Assist me, then, thou noble, Earl Carlisle,
Nor curl thy bitter lip with haughty smile.
Thy motto is,-A will, without the means,
To aid the supplicant, who, on thee, leans.
Beloved Harriet! regard, my choice,
With favor hear thy Billy Beauclerc's voice!
Behold thy flitch, depos'd in silver casket;

Small was the pig; but take it, and the basket:

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And now, in verse, I'll strive my tale to tell,
And all must answer-Well-Oh! very well!
Thank God, and thee, thou Dowager of Bute,
Thy pride is lower'd to my duchess' suit.
Look at this, richly, gilt, and bronz'd plateau ;
For which, we gave ten times its cost, you know.

The duchess, though most perfect, in her part,
Wished no allusion to the drama's art:

Behold The Falcon! 'tis a six-oared cutter,
Not such as boys launch, in each filthy gutter;

But large as What? As big as a-bum-boat:

Each rower wears a green, and yellow coat.

The midnight hour, now, struck, and all had gone,
And host, and hostess yawn'd :-they were alone!
Their graces, of the fête, champêtre, vain,

Did all its honors, o'er and o'er again.

Why was Bute's plateau bronze, my lovely dear?
Surely no bronze should ever enter here!
Methinks, 'tis sending coals, unto the Tyne;
You've lots of bronze, well gilt, and, then, so fine,
You can afford it, e'en, for common wear.

We are so rich, that nothing, now, seems rare:

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And bronze, to you, is much the same as brass!
Mosaic gold, Nash treats as a mere farce-
Stop-cried her Grace-and know, all flesh is grass.

The duke was pos'd-he heard with silent wonder,
Reclin'd his head, and-snor'd as loud as thunder.

Tuesday was, somewhat, giv'n to rest, but most,
To write the story for The Morning Post.
Wednesday repaid us every toil and pain:
We figure in the slip-slop, once again.
Thursday beheld us in that banking-stew,

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Whence came my wealth-from which my honors grew. 70
Yet here, misgivings, still, my sight assail :
Whispers, and sneers, among the clerks prevail;
And, when I heard St. Clement Danes's chimes,
Methought to ask, Why have I not The Times?
Some magic, surely, in my voice is found!
Partners, clerks, porters, move in rapid round,
But the d-d paper's no where to be found.
I sought my home, my faithful husband, Billy,
Not in St. James's Square, but Piccadilly,
Now frantic raved-now roll'd upon the floor,
Excited, as he ne'er had been before,

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While scraps of paper litter'd the rich tapis,
Beyond all worth-to have it, made me happy.

I saw the whole misfortune in a trice-
The Times! I had not paid its nasty price.
Folly of follies-too late to lament;
But I will punish:-ah! why not prevent?
Madness lies in the thought. Again I pop
My ruby face into the banking-shop,

Where I now learn, his pen, whom most I hate,
Upholds, to ridicule, my Nuptial fête :

Each pen, tongue, pencil-all have full employ,
To satirise me, and my ducal boy --
Call Holly-feast, a farce, and, for the flitch,
Turn it to rhyme, which ever ends with-bitch-
While all who dined and supp'd with us at Holly-
Grove-talk of it, as Harriet Mellon's folly-
Horns-Highgate-Hill-and Harriet-alliteration!
Falstaff would term, "damnable iteration"-

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Say our best efforts, cannot save our bacon:
For I shall rave-the Duke will, sadly, take on,
And, though our tables had no lack of ham, on,
The best supply of all, was purely-gammon:-
Talk of Miss Goddard, and her lovely daughter,
Who fail'd their sprinkling, of Virginia-water.

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