Mr. Minus, the Poet59
The poetry of Mr. Minus could be compared to nothing but the dropping of honey upon rose leaves, or the fluttering of moths round the smoke of cinnamon;—it was so flippant, so sweet, and so trifling. He had a round of set rhymes and ideas, which, like the man who walked out in the morning in a dress of crimson and gold, because he had no other, he perpetually was using; such as
“Coral lips and rolling eyes,
Roguish leers and heaving sighs,
Lily bosoms, seeking kisses,
Silent sighs for secret blisses;”
which species of versification having displayed al fresco after dinner in lines “To a Mole upon Fanny’s left knee;” “A sonnet to half a jasamine flower;” “An ode to the wing of a butterfly,” and “An Epithalamium on the marriage of two humming birds,” (all of which were written, sung, composed, and recited by himself) he obligingly sat down to the piano-forte on their return, and gave the following air with infinite effect:
Fanny’s Bower.60
“Come, Fanny, I’ve raised a sweet bower,
With roses and lilies entwin’d;
Before it grows every flower,
A bedroom I’ve built you behind.
“Our couch is a cluster of roses,
And while we lay lost in the sweet,
The leaves will so tickle our noses,
The thorns shall lie under our feet.
“The sheets, both the lower and upper,
Are made from a pair of bees’ wings,
Whose honey I’ve stole for your supper,
And carved with their sharp-cutting stings.
“To save us the trouble of thinking,
In dew-drops I’ll pledge you, my best,
And when I am tired of drinking,
I’ll sink on your bosom to rest.
“I’ll study your taste to a tittle,
In torrents our pleasures shall pour,
For the girl once indulged with a little,
Will very soon languish for more!”
This Mr. Minus considered a chef-d’œuvre, and if he was mistaken there was such a softness, a condescension and pleasantry in his manners, as would have excused a more serious error; as a companion, he was delightful; as a man, honourable; and as a poet, fashionable.