To Thomas Moore

OH you, who in all names can tickle the town,

Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown,--

For hang me if I know of which you may most brag,

Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post Bag;

But now to my letter--to _yours_ 'tis an answer--

To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir,

All ready and dressed for proceeding to spunge on

(According to compact) the wit in the dungeon--

Pray Phoebus at length our political malice

May not get us lodgings within the same palace!

I suppose that to-night you're engaged with some codgers,

And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers;

And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got,

Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote;

But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the _Scurra_,

And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra.