_Now_ for a _saint_ upon us you would palm him--
First _murder_ the poor man, and then _embalm him!_"
BOZZY.
"Well, Ma'am! since all that Johnson said or wrote,
You hold so sacred, how have you forgot
To grant the wonder-hunting world a reading
Of Sam's Epistle, just before your _wedding_:
Beginning thus, (in strains not form'd to flatter)
'Madam,
'_If that most ignominious matter
'Be not concluded_'--[1]
Farther shall I say?
No--we shall have it from _yourself_ some day,
To justify your passion for the _Youth_,
With all the charms of eloquence and truth."
MADAME PIOZZI.
"What was my marriage, Sir, to _you_ or _him?_
_He_ tell me what to do!--a pretty whim!
_He_, to _propriety_, (the beast) _resort!_
As well might _elephants preside_ at _court_.
Lord! let the world to _damn_ my match _agree;_
Good God! James Boswell, what's _that world_ to _me?_
The folks who paid respects to Mistress Thrale,
Fed on her pork, poor souls! and swill'd her ale,
May _sicken_ at Piozzi, nine in ten--
Turn up the nose of scorn--good God! what then?
For _me_, the Dev'l may fetch their souls so _great_;
_They_ keep their homes, and _I_, thank God, my meat.
When they, poor owls! shall beat their cage, a jail,
I, unconfin'd, shall spread my peacock tail;
Free as the birds of air, enjoy my ease,
Choose my own food, and see what climes I please.
_I_ suffer only--if I'm in the wrong:
So, now, you prating puppy, hold your tongue.
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