VI.

'By that last book of yours we think You've double damned yourself to scorn; We warned you whilst yet on the brink You stood. From your black name will shrink The babe that is unborn.'

All these Reviews the Devil made Up in a parcel, which he had Safely to Peter's house conveyed. For carriage, tenpence Peter paid-- Untied them--read them--went half mad.

'What!' cried he, 'this is my reward For nights of thought, and days of toil? Do poets, but to be abhorred By men of whom they never heard, Consume their spirits' oil?

'What have I done to them?--and who _Is_ Mrs. Foy? 'Tis very cruel To speak of me and Betty so! Adultery! God defend me! Oh! I've half a mind to fight a duel.