The place of all places for lounging away, In amusement and style the first half of the day, Is at each of the Libraries[3]; where you may find, Books, music, fine prints, in short all things combin'd, Which those who have taste are delighted to cherish And those who have none yet affect much to relish, Politicians, and ladies, bucks, authors, and peers, The busy all eyes, and the idle all ears, 284 May here every morning be seen in perfection, Like the books, or the news, just laid out for inspection, So to Wilson's I go every morning inquiring, "What arrivals there are?"----and the papers desiring, And look with a deep and significant phiz, For Peninsula news, or a boxing match quiz, Nay at times I converse on a poem or play, And utter no less 'cause I've nothing to say, Rememb'ring in all kinds of difficult cases, To make out my meaning by shrugs and grimaces, Thus a man without reading may give an opinion, And snatch for an hour dilletanti dominion, From what sources great critics may judge I can't tell But I always find mine are produc'd at the well, When my breakfast eats good and the waters agree Capel Loft's sugar-candy's not sweeter than me, This morning I dazzled the minds of the crowd, By pronouncing Lord Byron "a poet" aloud, Of Strangford and Moore then condemned the sweet flummery, Talk'd of Southey the chaste, and the matchless Montgomery, Call'd Campbell the elegant, Wordsworth the wild And the great Walter Scott Inspiration's own child; Then prais'd the sweet bard tho' unknown be his name, Who gave Talavera's dread battles to fame, Thus 'mongst reading-room gents I set up for a judge, And an eulogist too (when the waters will budge) But if on my stomach they happen to rest, With such critical spleen is my humour opprest, Whether minister, gen'ral, or author I seize on, Be assur'd that I charge him at least with high-treason, And it then would surprise ye to hear me debate, On the faults of the war and the crimes of the state, On wonderful plans for complete reformation, And fearful predictions for folks of high station, Then too the grand censor on writers I sit, And fulminate laws 'gainst pretenders to wit, 320 Or deeply regret these degenerate times, Produce prose without sense, without poetry rhymes Step on to consider the faults of the stage And conclude there's not one decent thing in the age. Thus as sung my great uncle "our evil, and good, "By few is conceiv'd, and by few understood," If unwisely we praise, or unfeelingly blame Now shudd'ring with ague, now burning with flame, Tho' ignorance gener'lly causes this fault, Yet _here_ 'tis the mixture of sulphur and salt Which nine times in ten will improve on our nature As it clears a complexion or softens a feature, And that without doubt you'll allow is the reason, Why so many matches are made here each season, And who knows dear ma'am but this wonderful water May gain me a sweet wife and yourself a dear daughter? And at Robey's likewise ev'ry morning I'm shown Since not to know _him_, would prove I was unknown Banker, Jeweller, Friseur, and Toyman, his trade is He's all things for the beaux and still more for the ladies, But no wonder they like him so much in this place, For good temper and honesty dwell in his face, And his shop is so stor'd with all things that are pretty, He has skimm'd the first cream from Pall Mall and the city. But from pictures of lounges I'll now give you rest, For the dinner bell rings and I am not half drest.