That poet concludes his ironical
eulogium on Edmund Burke, thus:--
"In short 'twas his fate, unemployed, or in place, sir,
_To eat mutton cold_, and cut blocks with a razor."
The cutting blocks with a razor, I think is obvious enough, but, what is
meant by eating mutton cold? I should be obliged by a solution. HEN. B.
* * * * *
I'LL COME TO YOUR BALL.
_(For the Mirror.)_
I'll come to your Ball--dearest Emma,
(I had nearly forgotten to say)
Provided no awkward dilemma
Should happen to keep me away:
For I burn with impatience to see you,
All our hopes, all our joys to recall,
And you'll find I've no wishes to flee you,
When next I shall come to your Ball.
Strange men, stranger things, and strange cities
I have seen since I parted from you,
But your beauty, your love, and your wit is
A charm that has still held me true,
And tho' mighty has been the temptation,
Your image prevail'd over all,
And I still held the fond adoration
For one I must meet at the Ball.
I have knelt at the shrine of a Donna,
And languish'd for months in her train,
But still I was whisper'd by honour,
And came to my senses again,
When I thought of the vows I had plighted,
And the stars that I once used to call
As my witnesses--could I have slighted?
Her I long to behold at the Ball.
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