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Paradox. Says a beau to a lady, Pray name if you Four people sat down in one evening to play, can,

They play'd all that eve, and parted next day; Of all your acquaintance, the handsomest man. Could you think, when you're told, as thus The lady replied, If you'd have me speak true, they all sat, He's the handsomest inan that's the most un- No other play'd with them, nor was there one

Yet, when they rose up, each gained a guinea,

Though none of 'em lost to the amount of a
On a Bowl of Punch.

Whene'er a bowl of punch we make,
Four striking opposites we take ;

Four merry fidlers play'd all night,
The strong, the small, the sharp, the sweet,

To many a dancing ninny;

And the next morning went away,
Together mix'd, most kindly meet;
And when they happily unite,

And each receiv'd a guinea.
The bowl “ is pregnant with delight.”

In conversation thus we find,
That four men, differently inclin'd;

On the Fifth of November.
With talents each distinct, and each
Mark'd by peculiar pow'rs of speech;

By an Irish Bellman.
With tempers too as much the same

To-Night's the day, I speak it with great As milk and verjuice, frost and flame;

sorrow, Their parts by properly sustaining,

That we were all t' have been blown up toMay all prove highly entertaining.

morrow ; Therefore, take care of fire, and candle-light : 'Tis a cold frosty morn, and so good night.

Reflections over a Pipe of Tobacco und a

Pinch of Snuff
Whilst smoke arises from my pipe,

Thus to myself I say:
Why should I anxious be for life,

Which vanishes away?
Our social snuff-boxes convey

The same ideas just;
As if they silently would say,

Let's mingle dust to dust.

A Description of London.
Houses, churches, mix'd together,
Streets unpleasant in all weather;
Prisons, palaces contiguous,
Gates, a bridge, the Thames irriguous;
Gaudy things enough to tempt ye,
Showy outsides, insides empty;
Babbles, trades, mechanic arts,
Coaches, wheelbarrows, and carts;
Warrants, bailiffs, bills unpaid,
Lords of laundresses afraid;
Kogues that nightly rob and shoot inen,
Hangmen, aldermen, and footmen;
Lawyers, poets, priests, physicians,
Noble, simple, all conditions ;
Worth beneath a threadbare cover,
Villainy bedaub'd all over ;
Women black, red, fair, and grey;

Prudes, and such as never pray; · Handsome, ugly, noisy, still,

Some that will not, some that will;
Many a beau without a shilling,
Many a widow not unwilling,
Many a bargain if you strike it:
This is London :-how d’ye like it?

A Country Quarter Session,
Three or four parsons full of October,
Three or four squires between drunk and sober;
Three or four lawyers, three or four liars;
Three or four constables, three or four criers;
Three or four parishes bringing appeals ;
Three or four writings, and three or four seals;
Three or four bastards, three or four whores;
Tag, rag, and bobtail, three or four scores;
Three or four statutes misunderstood,
Three or four paupers all praying for food;
Three or four roads that never were mended,
Three or four scolds and the session is ended.

On a young Lady.
Behold a nymph with ev'ry virtue graced,
Minerva's head on Venus' shoulders placed !
Kind nature here displays her nicest art,
With sweet relievos hides the soundest heart;
But while it hides, it elegantly tells
With what benevolence her bosom swells;
Here's beauty mental, moral, and divine,
To charm the lover, and his thoughts refine.

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What stories and nonsense for faith they beBut we, their wise sons, who these fables


To-morrow. An Epigram. reject,


will live, you always cry: Even truth, now-a-days, are too apt to suspect: In what far country does to-morrow lie, From believing too much, the right faith we That 'tis so mighty long ere it arrive? let fall,

Beyond the Indies doth this morrow live? So now we believe, i'faith, nothing at all.

'Tis so far fetch'd, this morrow, that I fear

'Twill be both very old, and very dear. Another.

To-morrow I will live, the fool does say.

To-day's too late : the wise liv’d yesterday. Cries Ned to his neighbours, as onward they

press'd, Conveying his wife to her place of long rest;

Spoken extempore by the Earl of Rochester to Take, friends, I beseech you, a little more

a Parish Clerk, leisure, For why should we thus make a toil of a

Sternhold and Hopkins had great qualms, pleasure ?

When they translated David's Psalms,

To make the heart full glad :

But had it been poor David's fate,
On Six Sorts of People who keep Fusts. To hear thee sing, and them translate,
The miser fasts because he will not eat,

By Jove, 'twould have made him mad.
The poor man fasts because he has no meat;
The rich man fasts with greedy mind to spare; Rhyme to Lisbon. By the same.
The glutton fasts, to eat the greater share;

Here's a health to Kate,
The hypocrite he fasts to seem more holy,
The righteous man to punish sin and folly.

Our Sovereign's mate,
Of the Royal House of Lisbon :

But the devil take Hyde,

And the Bishop beside
Epitaph on a Blacksmith.

That made her bone of his bone.
My sledge and hammer lie declin'd,
My bellows too have lost their wind;
My fire's extinct, my forge decay'd,

On Punch.
My vice is in the dust all laid;

Hence, restless care, and low design! My coal is spent, my iron gone,

Hence, foreign compliments and wine; My nails are drove, my work is done.

Let generous Britons, brave and free, My fire-dried corpse here lies at rest,

Still boast their punch and honesty.
My soul, smoke-like, soars to be blest.

Life is a bumper, fill'd by fate,
And we the guests who share the treat:

Where strong, insipid, sharp, and sweet, A whimsical Epitaph, taken from a Stone in a Each other duly temp'ring, meet. Church.

A while with joy the scene is crown'd, Here lies the body of Sarah Sexton,

A while the catch and toast go round; Who as a wife did never vex one;

And when the full carouse is o'er,
We can't say that for her at th' next stone.

Death puffs the lights, and shuts the door.
Say then, physicians of each kind,
Who cure the body or the mind,

What harm in drinking can there be,
On Quadrille. To a young Lady.

Since punch and life so well agree?
Deign, lovely nymph, to hear the least of

bards, Who draws instruction from a game of cards.

The Disappointed Husband. What tho'Quadrille perplex you? here is shown A scolding wife so long a sleep possess'd, How hard the task for her who plays alone. Her spouse presum'd her soul was now at rest; But would you then consent to be a wife, Sable was callid to hang the room with black, Think first, O think! you play your cards for And all their cheer was sugar, rolls, and sack; life!

Two mourning staffs stood sentry at the door, Should sordid friends control your right good And Silence reign'd, who ne'er was there will,

before; Beware the wretched state of forced Spadille. The cloaks, and tears, and handkerchiefs Should man, by grandeur, strive your heart to prepar'd, fire,

They march'd in woeful pomp to the churchA cross fish well denotes a purse-proud squire. yard, Then pass by wealth and power; for better sure When, see, of narrow streets what mischiefs It is, with some kind swain to play secure;

came! And he, dear girl, who does your charms The very dead can't pass in quiet home; adore,

By some rude jolt the coffin lid was broke, Now asks your leave; O! let him soon say more. And madam from her dream of death awoke.

Now all was spoild! The undertaker's pay, On the Death of Dr. Secker, late Archbishop Sour faces, cakes and wine, quite thrown away.

of Canterbury. But some years after, when the former scene

While Secker liv'd, he show'd how seers Was acted, and the coffin nail'd again;

should live; The tender husband took especial care

While Secker taught, heaven opend to our To keep the passage from disturbance clear,

eye ; Charging the bearers that they tread aright, When Secker gave, we knew how angels give; Nor put his dear in such another fright. When Secker died, we knew e'en Sain

must die.
Epigram by the Rev. Francis Blackburne, M. A.
late Archdeacon of Cleveland.

Lycidas to PRUDENTIA.

Occasioned by the Words One Prior." in Descend, fair Stoic, from thy Rights ;

Burnet's History. From nature learn to know,

One Prior!—and is this, this all the fame Our passions are the needful weights

The Poet from th' Historian can claim?
That make our virtues go.

No; Prior’s verse posterity shall quote,
Prudentia to LYCIDAS.

When 'tis forgot one Burnet ever wrote.
True, Lycidas; but think not so

Another truth to shun;
Our passions make our virtues go,

On Content. An Epigram.
But make our vices run.

It is not youth can give content,

Nor is it wealth's decree;
An Epigram.

It is a gift from heaven sent,

Though not to thee or me.
Music 's a crotchet the sober thinks vain,
The fiddle's a wooden projection;

It is not in the monarch's crown,
Tunes are but Airts of a whimsical brain,

Though he'd give millions for 't: Which the bottle brings best to perfection.

It dwells not in his lordship's frown,

Nor waits on him to court,
Musicians are half-witted, merry, and mad,
The same are all those that admire 'em ;

It is not in a coach and six,

It is not in a garter; They're fools if they play unless they're well paid,

'Tis not in love or politics, And the other are blockheads to hire 'em.

But 'tis in Hodge the carter.

An Epigram.

The First Pair. SAYS Johnny to Paddy, “ I can't for my


Adam alone could not be easy, Conceive how a dumb pair are made man and So he must have a wife, an please ye ; wife,

And how did he procure this wife, · Since they can't with the form and the parson Out of a rib, Sir, from his side,

To cheer his solitary life? accord." Says Paddy, “ You fool! they take each other's But how did he the pain beguile?

Was forin'd this necessary bride. word."

How !-he slept sweetly all the while.

And when this rib was re-applied,
The Biter bit.

In woman's form, to Adam's side,

How then, I pray you, did it answer?-A CERTAIN priest had hoarded up

He never slept so sweet again, Sir.
A secret mass of gold;
But where he might bestow it safe,
By fancy was not told.

Similes to Molly.
At last it came into his head

My passion is as mustard strong;
To lock it in a chest

I sit all sober sad ;
Within the chancel; and he wrote

Drunk as a piper all day long,
Thereon, Hic Deus est.

Or like a March hare mad.
A merry grig, whose greedy mind

Round as a hoop the bumpers flow,
Long wish'd for such a prey,

I drink, yet can't forget her ;
Respecting not the sacred words

For, though as drunk as David's sow,
on the casket lay,

I love her still the better,
Took out the gold; and blotting out

Pert as a pear-monger I'd be,
The priest's inscript thereon ;

If Molly were but kind;
Wrote, Resurrexit, non est hic,

Cool as a cucumber could see “ Your god is ris'n and gone."

The rest of womankind.

Like a stuck pig I gaping stare,

You'll find me truer than a die; And eye her o'er and o'er ;

And wish me better sped, Lean as a rake with sighs and care,

Flat as a flounder when I lie, Sleek as a mouse before.

And as a herring dead. Plump as a partridge was I known,

Sure as a gun she'll drop a tear, And soft as silk my skin ;

And sigh perhaps, and wish, My cheeks as fat as butter grow

When I am rotten as a pear, But as a groat now thin!

And mute as any

I, melancholy as a cat,
Am kept awake to weep;

But she, insensible of that,
Sound as a top can sleep.

To represent is but to personate,

Which should be truly done at any rate. Hard is her heart as fint or stone,

Thus they who're fairly chose without a fee, She laughs to see me pale ;

Should give their votes, '70 doubt, with liberty, And merry as a grig is grown,

But when a seat is sold by th' venal tribe, And brisk as bottled ale.

He represents them best--who takes a bribe. The god of love at her approach

Is busy as a bee;
Hearts sound as any bell or roach

On the Shortness of Human Life.
Are smit, and sigh like me.

Like as a damask rose you see,

Or like the blossom on a tree;
Ah me! as thick as hops or hail
The fine men crowd about her ;

Or like the dainty Aower in May,
But soon as dead as a door-nail

Or like the morning to the day; Shall I be, if without her.

Or like the sun, or like the shade,

Or like the gourd which Jonas had ; Straight as my leg her shape appears;

E'en such is man, whose thread is spun, O! were we join'd together,

Drawn out and cut, and so is done: My heart would be scot-free from cares, Withers the rose, the blossom blasts, And lighter than a feather.

The flower fades, the morning hastes ; As fine as fivepence is her mien,

The sun doth set, the shadows fly, No drum was ever tighter;

The gourd consumnes, and mortals die. Her glance is as a razor keen,

Like to the grass that's newly sprung, And not the sun is brighter.

Or like a tale that's new begun; As soft as pap her kisses are,

Or like a bird that's here to-day, Methinks I taste them yet;

Or like the pearled dew of May; Brown as a berry is her hair,

Or like an hour, or like a span, Her eyes as black as jet.

Or like the singing of a swan;

E'en such is man, who lives by breath, As smooth as glass, as white as curds,

Is here, now there, in life and death : Her pretty hand invites ;

The grass decays, the tale doth end, Sharp as a needle are her words,

The bird is flown, the dews ascend; Her wit like pepper bites.

The hour is short, the span not long, Brisk as a body-louse she trips,

The swan's near death, man's life is done. Clean as a penny drest; Sweet as a rose her breath and lips,

Like to the bubble in the brook, Round as a globe her breast.

Or in a glass much like a look :

Or like the shuttle in the hand, Full as an egg was I with glee,

Or like the writing in the sand; And happy as a king!

Or like a thought, or like a dream, Good Lord! how all men envied me!

Or like the gliding of the stream; She lov'd like any thing:

E'en such is man, who lives by breath, But false as hell, she like the wind

Is here, now there, in life and death: Chang'd as her sex must do;

The bubble's burst, the look's forgot, Though seeming as the turtle kind,

The shuttle's Aung, the writing's blot; And like the Gospel true.

The thought is past, the dream is gone,

The water glides, man's life is done. If I and Molly could agree,

Let who would take Peru; Great as an emperor should I be,

Epitaph on Captain Jones, And richer than a Jew.

Who pullished some marvellous Accounts of his

Travels, the Truth of all which he thought Till you grow tender as a chick,

proper to testify by affidavit. I'm dull as any post; Let us like burrs together stick,

TREAD softly, mortals, o'er the bones And warm as any toast.

Of the world's wonder, Captain Jones!

Who told his glorious deeds to many,

'Tis a landscape vainly gay, But never was believ'd by any.

Painted upon crumbling clay ; Posterity, let this suffice:

'Tis a lamp that wastes its fires ;
He swore all's
's true, yet here he lies.

"Tis a smoke that quick expires;
'Tis a bubble, 'tis a sigh :

Be prepar'd, O Man! to die.
A Portrait from Life.

An Anatomical Epitaph on an Invalid. Come sit by my side while this picture I draw:

Written by Himself. In chatt'ring a magpie, in pride a jackdaw;

Here lies a head that often ach’d; A temper the devil himself could not bridle,

Here lie two hands that always shak'd; Impertinent mixture of busy and idle ;

Here lies a brain of odd conceit; As rude as a bear, no mule half so crabbed,

Here lies a heart that often beat; She swills like a sow, and she breeds like a Here lie two eyes that daily wept, rabbit;

And in the night but seldom slept ; A housewife in bed, at table a slattern,

Here lies a tongue that whining talk'd, For all an example, for no one a pattern; Here lie two feet that feebly walk'd ; Now tell me, friend Thomas *, Ford †, Grat- Here lie the midriff and the breast, tan, † and merry Dant,

With loads of indigestion prest;
Has this
any likeness to good Madam Sheridan? Here lies the liver, full of bile,

That ne'er secreted proper chyle;
An Epigram,

Here lie the bowels, human tripes,

Tortur'd with wind and twisting gripes ; On seeing a young Lade writing Verses with a Here lies the livid dab, the spleen, Hole in her Stocking.

The source of life's sad tragic scene, To see a lady of such grace,

That left-side weight that clogs the blood, With so much sense and such a face,

And stagnates nature's circling food ; So slatternly, is shocking:

Here lie the nerves, so often twitch'd 0! if you would with Venus vie,

With painful cramps and poignant stitch; Your pen and poetry lay by,

Here lies the back, oft rack'd with pains, And learn to mend your stocking.

Corroding kidneys, loins, and reins;
Here lies the skin by scurvy fed,

With pimples and eruptions red;
An Epigram.

Here lies the man, from top to toe, As Tom was one day deep in chat with his That fabric fram'd for pain and woe.

friend, He gravely advisd him his manners to mend;

A Poem, That his morals were bad, he had heard it from

By Sir Walter RALEIGH. many.

SHALL I like an hermit dwell They lie, replied Tom, for I never had any.

On a rock or in a cell,

Calling home the smallest part
On Time.

That is missing of my heart,

To bestow it where I may
Say, is there aught that can convey Meet a rival ev'ry day?
An image of its transient stay?

If she undervalue me, 'Tis a hand's breadth ; 'tis a tale ;

What care I how fair she be? 'Tis a vessel under sail ;

Were her tresses angel-gold; 'Tis a courser's straining steed; 'Tis a shuttle in its speed;

If a stranger may be bold,

Unrebuked, unafraid, 'Tis an eagle in its way,

To convert them to a brayde, Darting down upon its prey;

And, with little more ado, 'Tis an arrow in its Aight,

Work them into bracelets too; Mocking the pursuing sight;

If the mine be grown so free, 'Tis a vapour in the air;

What care I how rich it be? 'Tis a whirlwind rushing there; 'Tis a short-liv'd fading How'r;

Were her hands as rich a prize "Tis a rainbow on a show'r;

As her hair, or precious eyes; 'Tis a momentary ray

If she laid them out to take Smiling in a winter's day;

Kisses, for good manners' sake, 'Tis a torrent's rapid streain;

And let ev'ry lover skip *Tis a shadow ; 'tis a dream;

From her hand unto her lip; 'Tis the closing watch of night;

If she seem not chaste to me,
Dying at approaching light,

What care I how chaste she be?
• Dr. Sheridan. + The Dean's friends. Mr. D. Jackson,

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