Shall ever usher thee to that sweet sleep"

to which a man shall be conducted by a few doses of Robert Montgomery's
Devil's Elixir, called "Satan," or by a portion, or rather a potion, of
"Oxford." Apollo, we know, was the god of medicine as well as of poetry.
Behold, in this our bard, his two divine functions equally mingled!

But waiving this, of which it was not my intention to speak, let me remark,
that the reason why poetry will no longer go down with the public, _as
poetry_, is, that the whole frame-work is worn out. No new rhymes can be
got at. When we come to a "mountain," we are tolerably sure that a
"fountain" is not very far off; when we see "sadness," it leads at once to
"madness"--to "borrow" is sure to be followed by "sorrow;" and although it
is said, "_when_ poverty comes in at the door, love flies out of the
window,"--a saying which seems to imply that poverty _may_ sometimes enter
at the chimney or elsewhere--yet I assure you, in poetry, "the poor"
_always_ come in, and always go out at "the door."

My new invention has closed the "door," for the future, against the vulgar
crew of versifiers. A man _must_ be original. He must write common-sense
too--hard exactions I know, but it cannot be helped.

I transmit you a specimen. Like all great discoveries, the chief merit of
my invention is its simplicity. Lest, however, "the meanest capacity"
(which cannot, by the way, be supposed to be addicted to PUNCH) should
boggle at it, it may be as well to explain that every letter of the final
word of each alternate line must be pronounced as though Dilworth himself
presided at the perusal; and that the last letter (or letters) placed in
_italics_ will be found to constitute the rhyme. Here, then, we have