Wit's treasured stores his humour wait,--
His volume, man in every state,--
From grave to gay, from rich to poor,
From gilded dome to rustic door.
Through all degrees life's varied page,
He shows the manners of the age.
The Daffy Club presents to the eye of a calm observer a fund of
entertainment; to the merry mad-wag who is fond of _life_, blowing his
_steamer_, and drinking _blue ruin_, until all is blue before him, a
~336~~source of infinite amusement; the convivial finds his antidote
to the rubs and jeers of this world in a rum chaunt; while the out
and outer may here open his mag-azine of tooth-powder, cause a grand
explosion, and never fear to meet a broadside in return. The knowing
cove finds his account in looking out for the green ones, and the
greens find their head sometimes a little heavier, and their pockets
lighter, by an accidental rencontre with the fancy. To see the place
in perfection, a stranger should choose the night previous to some
important mill, when our host of the Castle plays second, and all the
lads are mustered to _stump up_ their blunt, or to catch the important
_whisper_ where the _scene of action_ is likely to be (for there is
always due caution used in the disclosure), to take a peep at the
pugilists present, and trot off as well satisfied as if he had partaken
of a splendid banquet with the Great Mogul.
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