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the Graces. THAT far superior is thy state

On a very rich Gentleman drinking the Waters | To a Lady, with a Print of Venus attired by of Tunbridge Wells, who had refused to contribute to the Relief of a distress'd Family. FOR deepest woes old Harpax scorns to feel; Think ye his bowels stand in need of steel?

The Art of making one's own Sermons, illus-
trated by Example.

JACK stole his discourse from the fam'd
Doctor Brown,

But reading it wretchedly made it his own.

Know Thyself.

FITZ to the Peerage knows he's a disgrace, So mounts the coach-box as his proper place.

WHILE Dick to combs hostility proclaims, A neighbouring taper sets his hair in flames: The blaze extinct, permit us to inquire, "Were there no lives lost, Richard, in the fire?

Ignotum omne pro magnifico.

AVERSE to pamper'd and high-mettled steeds, His own upon chopp'd straw Avaro feeds: Bred in his stable, in his paddock born, What vast ideas they must have of corn!

A Case of Conscience; submitted to a late Dig-
nitary of the Church, on his Narcotic Expo-
sition of the following Text: "Watch and
Pray, lest ye enter into Temptation."
By our pastor perplext,

How shall we determine?
"Watch and pray," says the Text,
"Go to sleep," says the Sermon.

On a Lady who squinted.
IF ancient poets Argus prize
Who boasted of a hundred eyes,
Sure greater praise to her is due
Who looks a hundred ways with two!

As Will along the floor had laid
His lazy limbs in solemn show,
"You're ill," quoth Sal, "I'm sore afraid."
Indeed," says Will, "I'm rather low."

Even envy must agree;
On thee a thousand Graces wait,
On Venus only three.

To a Gentleman who was obliged to retreat for
fear of a disagreeable Retaliation.

THAT Cotta is so pale, so spare,
No cause for wonder now affords;
He lives, alas! on empty fare,
Who lives by eating his own words.

On the Dutchess of Devonshire.
ARRAY'D in matchless beauty, Devon's fair
In Fox's favor takes a zealous part:
But, oh! where'er the pilferer comes-beware!
She supplicates a vote, and steals a heart.

On the Phrase, " Killing Time." Translated from Voltaire.

"THERE's scarce a point wherein mankind
agree,

So well as in their boast of killing me.
I boast of nothing: but, when I've a mind,
I think I can be even with mankind."

"BROTHER bucks, your glasses drain :

Tom, 'tis strong and sparkling red.""Never fear-'twon't reach my brain.""No-that's true-but 'twill your head."

THE gay Flirtilla show'd her mimic bust, And ask'd blunt Senso if 'twere fashion'd just. "Ma'am," he replied, " in this 'tis much like you;

The face is painted, and that badly too."

An Expostulation.

WHEN late I attempted your pity to move,
Why seem'd you so deaf to my prayers?
Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love-
But why did you kick me down stairs?

Epitaph.

HERE is my much-lov'd Celia laid,
At rest from all her earthly labors!
Glory to God, peace to the dead,

And to the ears of all her neighbours.

"My wife's so very bad," cried Will, "I fear she ne'er will hold it

She keeps her bed !"—" Mine's worse," quoth Phil,

"The jade has just now sold it."

The Clown's Reply. GOLDSMITH. JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers To tell them the reason why asses had ears: "An't please you," quoth John, "I'm not given to letters, [betters: Nor dare I pretend to know more than my Howe'er, from this time, I shall ne'er see your graces, [asses." As I hope to be sav'd! without thinking on

An Elegy on the Glory of her Sex. By the Same.
GOOD people all, with one accord

Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word—
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor-
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways-
Unless when she was sinning.

At church with silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size;
She never slumber'd in her pew-
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,

By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her-
When she has walk'd before.

But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all,
The doctors found, when she was dead,
Her last disorder-mortal.

Let us lament in sorrow sore;

For Kent-street well may say,

That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more,
She had not died to-day.

On a Miser.

IRON was his chest,

Iron was his door,

His hand was iron,

And his heart was more.

On Dr. King's (the celebrated Orator and Jacobite, of Oxford) Ridicule of the Quack Doctor Oculist Taylor, who called himself the Chevalier Taylor.

WHAT could provoke old King to sneer
Our most renown'd Eye-mender?—

King praises but one Chevalier,
And owns but one Pretender.

On Mr. Churchill's Death.

SAYS Tom to Richard, "Churchill's dead."
Says Richard, "Tom, you lie:
Old Rancour the report has spread,
But Genius cannot die."

JACK brags he never dines at home,
With reason too, no doubt-
In truth, Jack never dines at all,
Unless invited out.

To Chloe. By PETER PINDAR. DEAR Chloe, well I know the swain,

Who gladly would embrace thy chain,

And who, alas! can blame him?
Affect not, Chloe, a surprise:
Look but a moment on these eyes,
Thou'lt ask me not to name him.

Garrick and his brother Actor. By the same.

A SHABBY fellow chanc'd one day to meet The British Roscius in the street

(Garrick, of whom our nation justly brags). The fellow hugg'd him with a kind embrace"Good Sir, I do not recollect your face," [rags: Quoth Garrick.-" No!" reply'd the man of The boards of Drury you and I have trod Full many a time together, I am sure." “ When? with an oath, cried Garrick for, by G-,

66

I never saw that face of yours before!
What characters, I pray,

Did you and I together play?"

"Lord!" quoth the fellow, "think not that I mock

When you play'd Hamlet, Sir,-I play'd the Cock.'

On the Death of a promising Youth of Eighteen.
THOUGH death the virtuous young destroy,
They go to rest, and heavenly joy :
Life is not to be judg'd by dys,
Virtue endures when time decays;
And many old we falsely call,
Who truly never liv'd at all;
For what is time, if not employ'd
In worthy deeds, but all a void?

Then think not, though abridg'd by fate,
Too short this youth's allotted date ;
With dignity he fill'd his span,
In conduct and in worth a man.
So spent, a life to heaven appears
As full as Nestor's length of years.

On a whole Family cut off by the Small-pow
By Master PETER RAINIER.
AT once depriv'd of life, lies here
A family to virtue dear.

Though far remov'd from regal state,
Their virtues made them truly great.
Lest one should feel the other's fall,
Death has, in kindness, seiz'd them all.

I

A DOCTOR there is of so humble a grace,
That the case he durst never express:
But little he says, and if that you will trace,
His knowledge you'll find to be less.

Then sure you will say he's deficient in brain;
Or his head to a still you'll compare,
That does little or nothing but simples contain,
And yields them by drops that are rare.

A Distich written by Mr. Cowper, at the Request of a Gentleman who importuned him to write something in his Pocket Album.

I WERE indeed indifferent to fame, Grudging two lines t'immortalize my name.

An old Gentleman of the name of Page, finding a Lady's Glove, sent it to the Owner, with this Distich, and received the following An

swer.

If that from Glove you take the letter G, Then Glove is love, and that I send to thee.

ANSWER.

If that from Page you take the letter P, Then Page is age, and that won't do for me.

On his Excellency the late Lord Galloway and his Cook.

SAYS my Lord to his cook, "You son of a punk,

How comes it I see you, thus, ev'ry day drunk? Physicians, they say, once a month do allow A man, for his health, to get drunk as a sow." That is right," quoth the cook," but the day they don't say;

"So for fear I should miss it, I'm drunk ev'ry day."

To an unfortunate Beauty.

SAY, lovely maid, with downcast eye,
And cheek with silent sorrow pale,
What gives thy heart the lengthen'd sigh,
That heaving tells a mournful tale?
Thy tears, which thus each other chase,

Bespeak a breast o'erwhelm'd with woe; Thy sighs, a storm which wrecks thy peace, Which souls like thine should never know. Oh! tell me, doth some favour'd youth,

Too often blest, thy beauties slight;
And leave those thrones of love and truth,
That lip, and bosom of delight?

What though to other nymphs he flies,
And feigns the fond, impassion'd tear,
Breathes all the eloquence of sighs

That treach'rous won thy artless car?
Let not those nymphs thy anguish move,

For whom his heart may seem to pine! That heart shall ne'er be blest by love, Whose guilt can force a pang from thine.

Conscience.

THE Chartreux wants the warning of a bell To call him to the duties of his cell; There needs no noise at all t' awaken sin, Th' adulterer and thief his 'larum has within.

Lines sent to Mr. Cosway, while Lady C. Pawlet was sitting to him.

grace

COSWAY, my Cath'rine sits to you: And, that the col'ring may be true, This nosegay on your pallet place, Replete with all the tints that The various beauties of her face. Her skin the snow-drop's whiteness shows, Her blushing cheek the op'ning rose: Her eyes the modest violet speak, Whose silken fringes kiss her cheek. The spicy pink, in morning dew, Presents her fragrant lips to view. The glossy curls that crown her head, Paint from the gilt-cup of the mead. Long may her image fill my eye, When these fair emblems fade and die; Placed on my faithful breast, and prove 'Tis Cosway paints the Queen of Love.

On seeing a Dog asleep near his Master. THRICE happy dog! thou feel'st no woe, No anguish to molest

Thy peaceful hours that sweetly flow,
Alternate sport and rest.

Man's call'd thy lord-affliction's heir!
And sorrow's only son!
Whilst he's a slave to ev'ry care,

And thou art slave to none.
Blest, near thy master thus to lie,

And blest with him to rove!

Unstain'd by guilt thy moments fly
On wings of grateful love.

Oh! that my heart, like thine, could taste
The sweets of guiltless life!
Beyond the reach of passion placed,
Its anguish and its strife.

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Verses written by a Gentleman on finding an Urn. | Accurs'd be the merciless band,

TRIFLING mortal, tell me why

Thou hast disturb'd my urn;
Want'st thou to find out what am I?
Vain man! attend, and learn:

To know what letters spelt my name
Is useless quite to thee;
A heap of dust is all I am,

And all that thou shalt be.
Go now, that heap of dust explore,
Measure its grains, or weigh;
Canst thou the title which I bore
Distinguish in the clay?

What glitt'ring honors, or high trust,
Once dignified me here,
Were characters imprest on dust,
Which quickly disappear.

Nor will the sparkling atoms show
A Claudius or a Guelph:

Vain search if here the source thou'dst know,

Of nobles, or thyself.

The mould will yield no evidence
By which thou mayst divine
If lords or beggars issued thence,
And form'd the ancient line.

Learn then the vanity of birth;

Condition, honors, name,
Are all but modes of common earth,

The substance just the same.

Bid av'rice and ambition view

Th' extent of all their gains;
Themselves, and their possessions too,
A gallon vase contains.

Haste, lift thy thoughts from earthly things
To more substantial bliss;

And leave that grov'ling pride to kings,
Which ends in dirt like this.

Let virtue be thy radiant guide,
"Twill dignify thy clay,
And raise thy ashes glorified,
When suns shall fade away.

The Negro's Complaint.

WIDE over the tremulous sea
The moon spread her mantle of light,
And the gale, gently dying away,

Breath'd soft on the bosom of night.
On the forecastle Maratan stood,

And pour'd forth his sorrowful tale;
His tears fell unseen in the flood,

His sighs pass'd unheard on the gale.
Ah, wretch! in wild anguish he cry'd,
From country and liberty torn;
Ah! Maratan, wouldst thou had died,

Ere o'er the salt waves thou wert borne!
Through the groves of Angola I stray'd,
Love and Hope made my bosom their home,
There I talk'd with my favourite maid,

Nor dream'd of the sorrow to come.
From the thicket the man-hunter sprung,

My cries echo'd loud through the air; There was fury and wrath on his tongue, He was deaf to the shrieks of despair.

Who his love could from Maratan tear; And blasted this impotent hand,

That was sever'd from all I held dear.

Flow, ye tears, down my cheeks ever flow,
Still let sleep from my eye-lids depart,
And still may the arrows of woe

Drink deep of the stream of my heart!
But hark! on the silence of night
My Adila's accents I hear,
And inournful beneath the wan light
I see her lov'd image appear!
Slow o'er the smooth ocean she glides,
As the mist that hangs light on the wave;
And fondly her lover she chides,

That lingers so long from the grave.
“O Maratan, haste thee!" she cries,

Here the reign of oppression is o'er, The tyrant is robb'd of his prize,

And Adila sorrows no more."

Now, sinking amidst the dim ray,
Her form seems to fade on my view;
() stay then, my Adila, stay—

She beckons, and I must pursue.
To-morrow, the white man in vain
Shall proudly account me his slave ;
My shackles I plunge in the main,
And rush to the realms of the brave.

Elegy to the Memory of Miss Louise Harvey.
O THOU, to whom fair Genius homage paid,
Whom science courted, and the Muses lov'd:
Whose mind the hand of Innocence array'd,
Pure as that form which Envy's self ap
prov'd:

Accept these tributary drops-these sighs!
(Remembrance still will on thy virtues
dwell)
[skies,
Tho' nought could check thy progress to the
The soul must cherish hers it lov'd so well.
For thou wert all ambition could desire,

Endow'd with all that nature could impart: Warm was thy breast with Friendship's sacre fire,

And form'd for sentiment thy gentle heart. Near thy blest shade the pensive Muse sha..

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That Power which seal'd th' apparent harsh decree,

Who ev'ry feeling of thy heart could know, Judg'd what thy pangs from future ills might be, And snatch'd thee early from a world of woe.

On an unfortunate Beauty. ANON.
POOR wand'rer! how shall that weak form,
So loosely clad in vesture light,
Endure the malice of the storm,

The rudeness of the winter's night?
And does a smile thy cheek illume?
Alas! that faint and feeble glow
Is like the flower's untimely bloom,
Drooping amidst a waste of snow.

Poor wretch!-you sigh, you would unfold
The course of sorrow you have run:
A simple story, quickly told-

You lov'd, believ'd, and were undone.
Why weep you as my hand you press ?
Why on my features gaze and sigh?
Would no one pity your distress?
None listen to your tale, but I?
Alas! a pittance scant, I fear,

Is all the joy I can bestow;
I can but wipe away one tear,

One moment from a life of woe.
Yet e'en for this your grateful eye

To heaven is rais'd-Poor girl, adieu!
To scenes of senseless mirth I fly,
To poverty and sickness you.

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WHEN Chloe's picture was to Chloe shown, Adorn'd with charms and beauties not her own; Where Hogarth, pitying nature, kindly made Such lips, such eyes, as Chloe never had; Ye Gods! she cries in ecstasy of heart, How near can nature be express'd by art! Well! it is wondrous like! nay, let me die, The very pouting lip, the killing eye!— Blunt and severe as Manly in the play, Downright replies: Like, madam, do you say? The picture bears this likeness, it is true: The canvas painted is, and so are you.

My sickly spouse with many a sigh Oft tells me-Billy, I shall die! I griev'd, but recollected straight 'Tis bootless to contend with fate; So resignation to Heaven's will Prepar'd me for succeeding ill. "Twas well it did; for on my life, 'Twas Heaven's will-to spare my wife.

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