Letter from Mrs. Hardinge to Her Son

And pray, Sir, what have you to give,
Till R ****'s under ground?
The gaol, perhaps, in which you live!
But where's the Fifty Pound ?

It sav'd a Bankrupt from disgrace,
For you alone were bound;
I gave it for the Hardinge-race;
The sum was Fifty Pound .

What mazes of your puzzled head,
Yourself and me confound?
Shut up your books! and go to bed!
You owe me Fifty Pound .

Your hope to raise the Kingston rent
With Suits at Law is crown'd;
But you will never be content,
Or pay the Fifty Pound .

Though bad enough, should still be worse
Than 'tis at present found;
You 'd cut a joke, and write a verse,
But pay no Fifty Pound .

I hate your Wits — I hate your Pets,
My head is clear and sound;
Instead of rhyming, pay your debts ,
And me the Fifty Pound .

You talk of horses, and of grooms,
As if no terrors frown'd;
His victim Jove to madness dooms,
I 've lost my Fifty Pound .
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