POCUS. Admire you Christabelle — "the" Christabelle?*
HOCUS. Not in the least; it is a driv'lling tale Without a line of beauty to atone For crowing cocks, or mastiff bitches' moan; 'Tis arrant nonsense — so are both the scraps Tack'd at the end, purloin'd from broken naps. Who would imagine that the self-same wight Remorse as well as Christabelle could write?
JOCUS. "'Tis strange, 'tis passing strange—"
POCUS. His Mariner Is what can never from the mem'ry stir; Though wild beyond compare, it somehow tells, And to admire each wond'ring mind compels.
JOCUS. In every work they write, how odd it is These Lakish poets seem to woo the quiz!
* Coleridge's Christabelle is — what I am unable to describe. Well does it deserve the definite article bestowed upon it by its author, as it certainly is an unique production, unlike any thing "in the heavens above, or the earth beneath, or the waters under the earth." The following lines will be understood by those who have perused it, and the "curiosities" at the end of it.
