head! Where's Dr. Willis?—Or is he joking? What does the rascal mean or hope, 475 No longer imitating Pope, In that barbarian Shakespeare poking?' 5. One more, 'Is incest not enough? And must there be adultery too? Grace after meat? Miscreant and Liar! 480 Thief! Blackguard! Scoundrel! Fool! hell-fire Is twenty times too good for you. 6. 'By that last book of yours WE think You've double damned yourself to scorn; We warned you whilst yet on the brink 485 You stood. From your black name will shrink The babe that is unborn.' 7. All these Reviews the Devil made Up in a parcel, which he had Safely to Peter's house conveyed. 490 For carriage, tenpence Peter paid— Untied them—read them—went half mad. 8. 'What!' cried he, 'this is my reward For nights of thought, and days, of toil? Do poets, but to be abhorred 495 By men of whom they never heard, Consume their spirits' oil? 9. 'What have I done to them?—and who IS Mrs. Foy? 'Tis very cruel To speak of me and Betty so! 500 Adultery! God defend me! Oh! I've half a mind to fight a duel. 10. 'Or,' cried he, a grave look collecting, 'Is it my genius, like the moon, Sets those who stand her face inspecting, 505 That face within their brain reflecting, Like a crazed bell-chime, out of tune?' 11. For Peter did not know the town, But thought, as country readers do, For half a guinea or a crown, 510 He bought oblivion or renown From God's own voice in a review. 12. All Peter did on this occasion Was, writing some sad stuff in prose. It is a dangerous invasion 515 When poets criticize; their station Is to delight, not pose. 13. The Devil then sent to Leipsic fair For Born's translation of Kant's book; A world of words, tail foremost, where 520 Right—wrong—false—true—and foul—and fair As in a lottery-wheel are shook. 14. Five thousand crammed octavo pages Of German psychologics,—he Who his furor verborum assuages 525 Thereon, deserves just seven months' wages More than will e'er be due to me. 15. I looked on them nine several days, And then I saw that they were bad; A friend, too, spoke in their dispraise,— 530 He never read them;—with amaze I found Sir William Drummond had. 16. When the book came, the Devil sent It to P. Verbovale, Esquire, With a brief note of compliment, 535 By that night's Carlisle mail. It went, And set his soul on fire. 17. Fire,
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