The Unbeloved - Poem by Charles Lamb
Not a woman, child, or man in
All this isle, that loves thee, C--ng.
Fools, whom gentle manners sway,
May incline to C--gh,
Princes, who old ladies love,
Of the Doctor may approve,
Chancery lads do not abhor
Their chatty, childish Chancellor.
In Liverpool some virtues strike,
And little Van's beneath dislike.
Tho, if I were to be dead for 't,
I could never love thee, H--t:
(Every man must have his way)
Other grey adulterers may.
But thou unamiable object,-
Dear to neither prince, nor subject;-
Veriest, meanest scab, for pelf
Fastning on the skin of Guelph,
Thou, thou must, surely, loathe thyself.
R. et R.
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