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LETTER I.

FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD

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WHO d'ye think we've got here?-quite reformed from the giddy,

Fantastic young thing, that once made such a

noise

Why, the famous Miss Fudge—that delectable Biddy,
Whom you and I saw once at Paris, when boys,
In the full blaze of bonnets, and ribands, and airs,—
Such a thing as no rainbow hath colours to

paint;

Ere time had reduced her to wrinkles and prayers,

And the Flirt found a decent retreat in the Saint.

B

Poor "Pa" hath popp'd off-gone, as charity judges,
To some choice Elysium reserv'd for the Fudges;
And Miss, with a fortune, besides expectations

From some much revered and much-palsied relations,
Now wants but a husband, with requisites meet,—
Age thirty, or thereabouts-stature six feet,
And warranted godly,-to make all complete.
Nota bene-a Churchman would suit, if he's high,
But Socinians or Catholics need not apply.

What say you, Dick? does n't this tempt your ambition?

The whole wealth of Fudge, that renown'd man

of pith,

All brought to the hammer, for Church competition,—

Sole encumbrance, Miss Fudge to be taken

therewith.

Think, my boy, for a Curate how glorious a catch!

While, instead of the thousands of souls you

now watch,

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