My stable's unslated,
Come back t'us well freighted;
I remember my late-head,
And wish you translated,
For teazing me.
2 P. S. Mrs. Dingley
Desires me singly
Her service to present you,
Hopes that will content you;
But Johnson madam
Is grown a sad dame,
For want of your converse,
And cannot send one verse.
3 P. S. You keep such a twattling
With you and your bottling,
But I see the sum total,
We shall ne'er have one bottle;
The long and the short,
We shall not have a quart.
I wish you would sign't,
That we may have a pint,
For all your colloguing[1],
I'd be glad of a knogging[2]:
But I doubt 'tis a sham,
You won't give us a dram.
'Tis of shine, a mouth moon-full,
You won't part with a spoonful,
And I must be nimble,
If I can fill my thimble.
