Next I announce to hall and hovel
  Lord Asterisk’s unwritten novel. 
  It’s full of wit, and full of fashion,
  And full of taste, and full of passion;
  It tells some very curious histories,
  Elucidates some charming mysteries,
  And mingles sketches of society
  With precepts of the soundest piety. 
      Thus I babble to the host
      Who adore the “Morning Post;”
      If they care for what I say. 
      They are April fools to-day.

  Then to the artist of my raiment
  I hint his bankers have stopped payment;
  And just suggest to Lady Locket
  That somebody has picked her pocket—­
  And scare Sir Thomas from the city,
  By murmuring, in a tone of pity,
  That I am sure I saw my Lady
  Drive through the Park with Captain Grady. 
      Off my troubled victims go,
      Very pale and very low;
      If they care for what I say,
      They are April fools to-day.

  I’ve sent the learned Doctor Trepan
  To feel Sir Hubert’s broken kneepan;
  ’Twill rout doctor’s seven senses
  To find Sir Hubert charging fences! 
  I’ve sent a sallow parchment scraper
  To put Miss Trim’s last will on paper;
  He’ll see her, silent as a mummy,
  At whist with her two maids and dummy. 
      Man of brief, and man of pill,
      They will take it very ill;
      If they care for what I say,
      They are April fools to-day.

  And then to her, whose smiles shed light on
  My weary lot last year at Brighton,
  I talk of happiness and marriage,
  St. George’s and a travelling carriage. 
  I trifle with my rosy fetters,
  I rave about her ’witching letters,
  And swear my heart shall do no treason
  Before the closing of the season. 
      Thus I whisper in the ear
      Of Louisa Windermere—­
      If she cares for what I say,
      She’s an April fool to-day.

  And to the world I publish gaily
  That all things are improving daily;
  That suns grow warmer, streamlets clearer,
  And faith more firm, and love sincerer—­
  That children grow extremely clever—­
  That sin is seldom known, or never—­
  That gas, and steam, and education,
  Are, killing sorrow and starvation! 
      Pleasant visions—­but, alas
      How those pleasant visions pass! 
      If you care for what I say,
      You’re an April fool to-day.

  Last, to myself, when night comes round me,
  And the soft chain of thought has bound me,
  I whisper, “Sir, your eyes are killing—­
  You owe no mortal man a shilling—­
  You never cringe for star or garter,
  You’re much too wise to be a martyr—­
  And since you must, be food for vermin,
  You don’t feel much desire for ermine!”
      Wisdom is a mine, no doubt,
      If one can but find it out—­
      But whate’er I think or say,
      I’m an April fool to-day,
                     London Magazine.