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Concubitu prohibere vago.

Hast thou sixty winters counted,
And on back of goat still mounted

With a colt's tooth * in thine head:
Front quite bald, and small eyes leering.
Lips which still proclaim thee steering

To the harlot's reeking bed?

Now by some dark alley f waiting,
Hottest lust thy soul elating,
All thy wither'd limbs on fire;

* There might be many instances adduced of this propensity still remaining in full force with persons, though not even a stump of the strongest grinder is left in their jaws. Such a deficiency, however, is easily replaced by rows of ivory, which speedily imbibe a deep yellow tinge, a certain index of the raging and unquenchable fire that burns within.

t The picture here displayed by the poet, cannot be'

Knees unsteady, legs quite spindle,
Bloodless frame, that seems to dwindle,
Parch'd with feverish vain desire.

All thy life one scene of riot,
Days unsteady, nights unquiet,

Fancy ever on the rack;
Forming plans for which thou'rt thirsting,
But on trial prove disgusting,

Heaping ennui on thy back.

Senseless ideot; driv'ller * tell me,
Thiuk'st thou virtue e'er will sell thee,
Mind untainted, beauty, grace 1

more strikingly exemplified than in the first plate of the Harlot's Progress, from the pencil of that inimitable satirist, Hogarth, which displays the arrival of a beautiful country girl in the metropolis, who is supposed to have that moment alighted from the waggon, being accosted by an artful procuress; while in the back ground appears the

infamous Colonel G rt—s, her employer, whose age

and attitude may serve as a resemblance of our poet's hoary headed debauchee.

* Nothing affords matter for more melancholy reflection, than to witness this dotage in men who, during the vigour of manhood, ennobled themselves; a striking instance of which is recorded in the person of the renowned Ed

Aged impotence *, believe me,
All thy fancy'd joys deceive thee,
Thine's the harlot's bought embrace.

L'envoy Of The Poet.

The soul's great bane is mental idleness: Watch ev'ry thought, nor let the mind be mute.

ward III. who, at the age of 77, was the slave of Odb Alice Pearce, whom he denominated the "Lady of beauty", and in whose honour tiltings and tournaments were held in SmithfieM, at which the court attended. But nothing can more pointedly display the folly of such conduct than the close of that great man's life, who was attended on his death-bed by this fascinating dame, who, finding the monarch's end fast approaching, threw aside all those fascinations which she had been in the habit of adopting to subjugate him, and, blind to every principle but that of interest, even at the trying hour of dissolution, she busied herself in tearing the jewels from off" his fingers, and possessing every thing valuable that presented itself to her view.

* The great and politic Elizabeth, when in her 76ih

year, doted on the memory of the Earl of Essex, .for

whom a solemn dance was given, at which Mrs. Tiffin,

one of her ladies, was habited in character, and presented


If temperance in youth checks rash excess, Its sober pleasures with its years shall suit.


Come, trim the boat, row on each Rara Avis, Crowds flock to man my Stultifera Navis.

herself to the queen, who, pretending to be surprised at her appearance, demanded,

"Pray, who are you V

"Affection", answered Mrs. Tiffin.

"Affection's false", replied the queen. Upon which the lady wooed her Majesty to dance, which, we are informed, she did most solemnly, in despite of age and the falsehood of affection.



Though thou shouldst bray a fool in a mortar, among wheat, with a pestle, yet will not his foolishness depart from him. Solomon.

Say, what is this, a painted butterfly,
Or antic harlequin of motly dye,

What is't that thus disgraceth human nature?
Tis Adam's progeny in face and shape,
In port and conduct but a very ape*;

A man of fashion: vile, insipid creature!

* Indeed there are too many of this description, whose painted cheeks, perfumed linen, blackened eyebrows, and stay-laced shapes, together with affected utterance, disgrace the title of manhood.

Simia quam similis, turpissima bestia, nobis. Now tell mc, ye petit maitres, do ye know your likenesses?

c 2

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