Page 14 - Poetry-Books

My classics would not quiet lie,
A thing so fondly hoped;
Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry,
“My Livy has eloped!”

My life is wasting fast away
I suffer from these shocks;
And though I’ve fixed a lock on Gray,
There’s gray upon my locks.

I’m far from young—am growing pale
I see my Butter fly;
And when they ask about my ail,
‘Tis Burton! I reply.

They still have made me slight returns,
And thus my griefs divide;
For oh! they’ve cured me of my Burns,
And eased my Akenside.

But all I think I shall not say,
Nor let my anger burn;
For as they never found me Gay,
They have not left me Sterne.

—Laman Blanchard (Poetical Works, 1876, reprinted in Ballads of
Books, 1887)

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