Whate'er the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil,
None reach expertness without years of toil;640
But fifty dunces can, with perfect ease,
Tag twenty thousand couplets, when they please.
Why not?—shall I, thus qualified to sit
For rotten boroughs, never show my wit?
Shall I, whose fathers with the "Quorum" sate,[1]
And lived in freedom on a fair estate;
Who left me heir, with stables, kennels, packs,[2]
To all their income, and to—twice its tax;
Whose form and pedigree have scarce a fault,
Shall I, I say, suppress my Attic Salt?650
Thus think "the Mob of Gentlemen:" but you,
Besides all this, must have some Genius too.
Be this your sober judgment, and a rule,
And print not piping hot from Southey's school,
Who (ere another Thálaba appears),
I trust, will spare us for at least nine years,
- ↑ At the Sessions.—[MS. L. (b), in pencil.]
- ↑
Lines 647-650—
Whose character contains no glaring fault . . .
Shall I, I say.—[MS. L. (a).]
Street, became the head-quarters of the Pugilistic Club. (See Pierce Egan's Life in London, pp. 252-254, where the rooms are described, and a drawing of them by Cruikshank is given.) Jackson's character stood high. "From the highest to the lowest person in the Sporting World, his decision is law." He was Byron's guest at Cambridge, Newstead, and Brighton; received from him many letters; and is described by him, in a note to Don Juan (xi. 19), as "my old friend and corporeal pastor and master."]
