Sir George[628] thinks exactly with Lady Bluebottle:
And my Lord Seventy-four,[629] who protects our dear Bard,
And who gave him his place, has the
greatest
regard
For the poet, who, singing of pedlers and asses,
Has found out the way to dispense with Parnassus.
Byron
Scamp! don't you feel sore?
What say you to this?
_Scamp_. They have merit, I own;
Though their system's absurdity keeps it unknown, 110
_Ink_. Then why not unearth it in one of your lectures?
_Scamp_. It is only time past which comes under my strictures.
_Lady Blueb_. Come, a truce with all tartness;--the joy of my heart
Is to see Nature's triumph o'er all that is art.
Wild Nature!--Grand Shakespeare!
_Both_. And down Aristotle!
_Lady Bluem_.
Sir George[628] thinks exactly with Lady Bluebottle:
And my Lord Seventy-four,[629] who protects our dear Bard,
And who gave him his place, has the
greatest
regard
For the poet, who, singing of pedlers and asses,
Has found out the way to dispense with Parnassus.
120
_Tra_. And you, Scamp!--
_Scamp_. I needs must confess I'm embarrassed.
_Ink_. Don't call upon Scamp, who's already so harassed
With old _schools_, and new _schools_,
and no _schools_, and all _schools_[630].
_Tra_. Well, one thing is certain, that _some_ must be fools.
I should like to know who.
_Ink_. And I should not be sorry
To know who are _not_:--it would save us some worry.
_Lady Blueb_. A truce with remark, and let nothing control
This "feast of our reason, and flow of the soul."
Oh! my dear Mr.
