me, one jot, in my argument;--and, now I have
put it upon paper, it appears viler still;--it is execrable.--So, without
much further reasoning, I sat down to rhyming;--rhyming, as the reader
will see, in open defiance of _all reason_,--except the reasons of
Messrs. Cadell and Davies.--

Thus you have _My Night-Gown and Slippers_, with _Additions_, converted
to _Broad Grins_;--and 'tis well if they may not end in _Wide Yawns_ at
last! Should this be the case, gentle Reviewers, do not, ungratefully,
attempt to break my sleep, (_you will find it labour lost_) because I
have contributed to your's.

GEORGE COLMAN, the Younger.

_May, 1820._

CONTENTS

MY NIGHT-GOWN AND SLIPPERS
TOM, DICK, and WILL, were little known to Fame;--
THE WATER-FIENDS.
DICK ended:--TOM and WILL approve'd his strains;
THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.
Ere WILL had done 'twas waxing wond'rous late;
LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN.
THE KNIGHT AND THE FRIAR.
THE KNIGHT AND THE FRIAR, PART FIRST.
SIR THOMAS ERPINGHAM's SONNET ON HIS LADY.
THE KNIGHT AND THE FRIAR, PART THE SECOND.
Ye Criticks, and ye Hyper-Criticks!--who
THE ELDER BROTHER.

MY NIGHT-GOWN AND SLIPPERS

[Illustration]

TOM, DICK, and WILL, were little known to Fame;--
No matter;--
But to the Ale-house, oftentimes, they came,
To chatter.

It was the custom of these three
To sit up late;
And, o'er the embers of the Ale-house fire,
When steadier customers retire,
The choice _Triumviri_, d'ye see,
Held a debate.

Held a debate?--On politicks, no doubt.
Not so;--they care'd not who was in,
No, not a pin;--
Nor who was out.

All their discourse on modern Poets ran;
For in the Muses was their sole delight;--
They talk'd of such, and such, and such a man;
Of those who could, and those who could not write.

It cost them very little pains
To count the modern Poets, who had brains.
'Twas a small difficulty;--'twasn't any;
They were so few:
But to cast up the scores of men
Who wield a stump they call a pen,
Lord! they had much to do,--
They were so many!

Buoy'd on a sea of fancy, Genius rises,
And like the rare Leviathan surprises;
But the _small fry_ of scribblers!--tiny souls!
They wriggle thro' the mud in shoals.

It would have raise'd a smile to see the