"There the great man vouchsafed in turn to each Advice, what scrip or shares 'twas best to buy, There his own arts his favorites he would teach, And put them up to good things on the sly.

"Till to the House by his admirers borne, Warmed with Champagne in flustered speech he strove, And on through commerce, colonies, and corn, Like engine, without break or driver, drove.

"Till when he ceased to dip in fortune's till, Out came one cooked account—of our M. P.; Another came—yet men scarce ventured, still, To think their idol such a rogue could be.

"Until those figures set in sad array Proved how his victims he had fleeced and shorn Approach and read (if thou canst read) my lay, Writ on him more in sadness than in scorn."

THE EPITAPH.

Here lies, the gilt rubbed off his sordid earth, A man whom Fortune made to Fashion known; Though void alike of breeding, parts, or birth, God Mammon early marked him for his own.

Large was his fortune, but he bought it dear; When he won foully he did freely spend. He plundered no one knows how much a-year, But Chancery o'ertook him in the end.

No further seek his frailties to disclose: For many of his sins should share the load: While he kept rising, who asked how he rose? While we could reap, what cared we how he sowed?



THE BOA AND THE BLANKET. [Footnote: A few days before this burlesque of Warren appeared, a boa-constrictor in the London Zoological Gardens swallowed the blanket that had served as its bed.] AN APOLOGUE OF THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.—[AFTER WARREN.] PUNCH.

It is talked of Now! Was talked of Yesterday! May be muttered to-morrow! What?— THE BOA THAT BOLTED THE BLANKET, Speckled Enthusiast!

It was full moon's full moonlight! The Shilling I had paid down at the Gate Seem'd hung in Heaven. To NEWTON'S EYE (As Master of the Mint). A Splendid, yea, Celestial Shilling! I was alone, with Nothing to Speak of But Creation!

Yes! Gigantic NOAH'S Ark of twenty times her tonnage, Lay crouch'd, and purring, and velvety, and fanged About me! Cane-colored tigers—rug-spotted Leopards— Snakes (ah, CUPID!) knit and interknit—to true love knots Semblable! Striped Zebra—Onager Calcitrant—Common Ass, And I—and all were there! The bushy Squirrel with his half-cracked Nut, Slept. The Boar of Allemagne snored. The Lion's Cage was hot with heat of blood: And Peace in Curtain Ring linked two Ring Doves!

In Gardens Zoological and Regent, I, meditating, stood! And still the moon looked wondrous like a Shilling, Impartial Moon, that showed me all.

My heart fluttered as tho' winged from Mercury! I moved—approached the Snake-House! Oh, the balm of Paradise that came and went! The silver gleams of Eden shooting down the trembling strings Of my melodious heart! Down—down to its coral roots! I dashed aside the human tear; and—yes—prepared myself With will, drunk from the eyes of Hope, to gaze upon the Snake! The Boa!! The Python!!! The Anaconda!!!!

A Boa was there! A Boa, 'neath Crystal Roof! And rabbits, taking the very moonlight in their paws, Washed their meek faces. Washed, then hopped! "And so (I couldn't help it) so," I groaned—"the ancient Snake— That milk-white thing—and innocent—trustful! And then, Death—Death— And lo! there, typical, it is—it is— THE BLANKET!! Death shred of living thing that cropped the flower; And, thoughtless, bleated forth its little baa-a!"

Away! I will not tarry! Let the Boa sleep, And Rabbits, that have given bills to destiny, Meet his demand at three and six months' date! (We know such Boas and rabbits, Know we not?) Let me pass on! And here 'tis cool; nay, even cold Without the Snake-House!

The Moon still glistens, and again I think Of Multitudes who've paid and stared, and yawned and wandered here! The city muckworm, who Prom peacock orient, scarce could tell a cock Of hay! Though be ye sure, a guinea from a guinea-pig He knows, and (as for money) Ever has his squeak for't! Here, too, paused the wise, sagacious man, Master of probabilities! He sees the tusk of elephant—the two tusks— And, with a thought, cuts 'em into cubes— And with another thought—another—and another- Tells (to himself) how oft, in twenty years Those spotted squares shall come up sixes! And this in living elephant!

And HER MAJESTY has trod these Walks, Accompanied By PRINCE ALBERT, THE PRINCE OF WALES, THE PRINCESS ROYAL, And The Rest of the Royal Children!—

She saw the Tiger! Did she think of TIPPOO SAIB'S Tiger's Head? She saw the Lion! Thought she of one of her own Arms? She did NOT see the Unicorn; but (With her gracious habits of condescension) Did she think of him a bit the less? Thoughts crowd upon me-cry move on!

And now I am here; and whether I will or no, I feel I'm jolly! The Chameleons are asleep, and, like the Cabinet (Of course i mean the Whigs), Know not, when they rise to-morrow, What color they will wake!— The baby elephant seems prematurely old: Its infant hide all corrugate with thoughts Of cakes and oranges given it by boys; Alas! in Chancery now, and paralytic! This is very sad. No more of it!

Ha! ha! here sits the Ape—the many-colored wight! Thou hast marked him, with nose of scarlet sealing-wax, And so be-colored with prismatic hues, As though he had come from sky to earth— Sliding and wiping a fresh-painted rainbow!

Hush! I have made a perfect circle! And at the Snake-House once again I stand! Such is life! Eh! Oh! Help! Murder! Dreadful Accident! To be conceived—Oh, perhaps! Described—Oh, never! Keepers are up, and crowd about the box— The Boa's box—with unconcerned rabbits! Not so the Boa! Look! Behold! And where's the Blanket? In the Boa's inside place! The Monster mark! How he writhes and wrestles with the wool, as though He had within him rolls and rolls Of choking, suffocating influenza, That lift his eyes from out their sockets!—Of fleecy phlegm That will neither in or out, but mid-way Seem to strangle! Silence and wonder settle on the crowd; From whom instinctively and breathlessly, Ascend two pregnant questions! "Will the Boa bolt the blanket? Will the blanket choke the Boa?" Such the problem!

And then men mark and deduce Differently

"THE BLANKET IS ENGLAND: THE BOA THE POPE, WILL THE POPE DISGORGE HIS BULL?"

"THE BLANKET'S FREE TRADE: THE CORN-GORGED FOLK IS THE BOA WITH PLENTY STIFLED!"

"THE BLANKET'S REFORM TO GAG THE MOB, AND NAUGHT TO SATISFY!"

But I, a lofty and an abstract man, A creature of a higher element Than ever nourished the wood Ordained for ballot-boxes—I Say nothing; until a Keeper comes to me, and, Hooking his fore-finger in his forehead's lock, Says—"What's your opinion, Sir? If Boas will bolt Blankets, Boas must: If Snakes will rush upon their end, why not?" "My friend," said I, "The Blanket and the Boa— You will conceive me—are a type, yes, just a type, Of this our day. The dumb and monstrous, tasteless appetite Of stupid Boa, to gobble up for food What needs must scour or suffocate, Not nourish! My friend, let the wool of that one blanket Warm but the back of one live sheep, And the Boa would bolt the animal entire, And flourish on his meal, transmuting flesh and bones, And turning them to healthful nutriment! Believe this vital truth; The stomach may take down and digest And sweetly, too, a leg of mutton; That would turn at and reject One little ball of worsted!"

On saying this I turned away, Feeling adown the small-o'-the back That gentle warmth that waits upon us, when WE KNOW We have said a good thing; Knowing it better than the vain world Ever can or ever will Reader, I have sung my song! The BOA AND THE B——, like new-found star, Is mine no longer; but the world's!— Tell me, how have I sung it? With what note? With note akin that immortal bard The snow-white Swan of Avon? Or haply, to that —RARA AVIS, —That has —"Tried WARREN'S?"



THE DILLY AND THE D'S. [Footnote: Burlesque of Warren's Poem of "The Lily and the Bee," published at the home of the great Exhibition of 1851.] [AN APOLOGUE OF THE OXFORD INSTALLATION.] BY S—L W—RR—N, Q.S., LL.D., F.R.S PUNCH.

PART FIRST.

Oh, Spirit! Spirit of Literature, Alien to Law! Oh, Muse! ungracious to thy sterner sister, THEMIS, Whither away?—Away! Far from my brief—Brief with a fee upon it, Tremendous! And probably—before my business is concluded— A REFRESHER—nay, several!! Whither whirlest thou thy thrall? Thy willing thrall? "NOW AND THEN;" But not just at this moment, If you please, Spirit! No, let me read and ponder on THE PLEADINGS. Declaration! Plea!! Replication!!! Rejoinder!!!! Surrejoinder!!!!! Rebutter!!!!!! Surrebutter!!!!!!! ETC! ETC!! ETC!!! It may not be. The Muse— As ladies often are— Though lovely, is obstinate, And will have her own way! * * * * And am I not As well as a Q.S., An F.R.S. And LL.D.? Ask BLACKWOOD The reason why, and he will tell you, So will the Mayor— The MAYOR OF HULL! I obey, Spirit. Hang my brief—'tis gone!— To-morrow let my junior cram me in Court. Whither away? Where am I? What is it I behold? In space, or out of space? I know not. In fact I've not the least idea if I'm crazy. Or sprung—sprung? I've only had a pint of Port at dinner And can't be sprung— Oh, no!—Shame on the thought! I see a coach!— Is it a coach? Not exactly. Yet it has wheels— Wheels within wheels—and on the box A driver, and a cad behind, And Horses—Horses?— Bethink thee—Worm!— Are they Horses? or that race Lower than Horses, but with longer ears And less intelligence— In fact—"EQUI ASINI," Or in vernacular JACKASSES? 'Tis not a coach exactly— Now I see on the panels— Pricked out and flourished— A word! A magic word— "THE DILLY!"—"THE DERBY DILLY!" Oh Dilly! Dilly!—all thy passengers Are outsiders— The road is rough and rutty— And thy driver, like NIMSHI'S son— Driveth Furiously! And the cad upon the monkey-board The monkey-board behind, Scorneth the drag—but goes Downhill like mad. He hath a Caucasian brow! A son of SHEM, is he, Not of HAM— Nor JAPHETH— In fact a Jew— But see, the pace Grows faster—and more fast—in fact— I may say A case of Furious driving! Take care, you'll be upset— Look out! Holloa! * * * * Horrible! Horrible!! Horrible!! The Dilly— With all its precious freight Of men and Manners— Is gone! Gone to immortal SMASH! Pick up the pieces! Let me wipe my eyes! Oh Muse—lend me my scroll To do it with, for I have lost My wipe!

PART SECOND

* * * Again upon the road The road to where? To nowhere in particular! Ah, no—I thank thee, Muse— That hint—'tis a finger-post, And "he that runs may read"— He that runs? But I am not running— I am riding— How came I here?—what am I riding on? Who are my fellow-passengers? Ah, ha! I recognize them now! The Coach— The Box— The Driver— And the Cad— I'm on the Dilly, and the Dilly Is on the road again And now I see That finger-post! It saith "To Oxford Fifty-two miles." And, hark! a chorus! From all the joyous load, Driver and cad, and all! "We go," they sing— To OXFORD TO BE DOCTORED." To be Doctored? Then, wherefore Are ye so cheerful? I was not cheerful in my early days— Days of my buoyant boyhood— When, after inglutition Of too much Christmas pudding, Or Twelfth cake saccharine, I went, as we go now, To be Doctored! Salts! Senna and Rhubarb!! Jalap and Ipecacuanha!!! And Antimonial Wine!!!! "WORM! IDIOT!! DONKEY!!!" Said the free-spoken Muse "With them thou goest to be doctored, too, Not in medicine—but in Law— All these—and thou— Are going to be made HONORARY LL.D.s! Behold! And know thy company Be thou familiar with them, But by no means vulgar— For familiarity breeds contempt; And no man is a hero To his VALET-DE-CHAMBRE! So ponder and perpend." DERBY! The wise, the meek, the chivalrous— Mirror of knightly graces And daily dodges; Who always says the right things At the right time, And never forgets himself as others— Nor changes his side Nor his opinion— A STANLEY to the core, as ready To fight As erst on FLODDEN FIELD His mail-clad ancestor.— See the poem Of MARMION, By SIR WALTER SOOTT! DIZZY! Dark—supple—subtle— With mind lithe as the limbs Of ISHMAEL'S sons, his swart progenitors— With tongue sharp as the spear That o'er Sahara Flings the blue shadow Of the crown of ostrich feathers— As described so graphically By LAYARD, in his recent book On Nineveh! With tongue as sharp As aspic's tooth of NILUS, Or sugary Upon the occasion As is the date Of TAFILAT. DIZZY, the bounding Arab Of the political arena— As swift to whirl Right about face— As strong to leap From premise to conclusion— As great in balancing A budget— Or flinging headlong His somersets Over sharp swords of adverse facts, As were his brethren of EL-ARISH, Who Some years ago exhibited— With rapturous applause— At Astley's Amphitheater— And subsequently At Vauxhall Gardens! * * * * * Clustering, front and back On box and knife-board, See, petty man; Behold! and thank thy stars That led thee—Worm— THEE, that art merely a writer And a barrister, Although a man of elegant acquirements, A gentleman and a scholar— Nay, F.R.S. to boot— Into such high society, Among such SWELLS, And REAL NOBS! Behold! ten live LORDS! and lo *! no end Of Ex-Cabinet Ministers! Oh! happy, happy, happy, Oh, happy SAM! Say, isn't this worth, at the least "TEN THOUSAND A YEAR!" * * * * * And these are all, to day at least—- Thy fellows! Going to be made LL.D.s, even as thyself— And thou shalt walk in silk attire. And hob and nob with all the mighty of the earth, And lunch in Hall— In Hall! Where lunched before thee, But on inferior grub, That first great SAM— SAM JOHNSON! And LAUD, and ROGER BACON, And CRANMER, LATIMER, And RIDLEY, And CYRIL JACKSON—and a host besides, Whom at my leisure I will look up In WOOD'S "ATHENAE OXONIENSES" Only to think! How BLACKWOOD Is honored! ALISON! AYTOUN! BULWER!!! And last, not least The great SAM GANDERAM!!!! Oh EBONY! Oh MAGA! And oh Our noble selves!



"A BOOK IN A BUSTLE." A TRUE TALE OF THE WARWICK ASSIZES. BY THE GHOST OF CRABBE. PUNCH.

The partial power that to the female race Is charged to apportion gifts of form and grace, With liberal hand molds beauty's curves in one, And to another gives as good as none: But woman still for nature proves a match, And grace by her denied, from art will snatch. Hence, great ELIZA, grew thy farthingales; Hence, later ANNA, swelled thy hoops' wide pales; To this we must refer the use of stays; Nor less the bustle of more modern days.

Artful device! whose imitative pad Into good figures roundeth off the bad— Whether of simple sawdust thou art seen, Or tak'st the guise of costlier crinoline— How oft to thee the female form doth owe A grace rotund, a line of ampler flow, Than flesh and blood thought fit to clothe it with below!

There dwelt in Liverpool a worthy dame, Who had a friend—JAMES TAYLOR was his name. He dealt in glass, and drove a thriving trade And still saved up the profits that he made, Till when a daughter blessed his marriage bed, The father in the savings-bank was led In his child's name a small sum to invest, From which he drew the legal interest. Years went and came; JAMES TAYLOR came and went, Paid in, and drew, his modest three per cent, Till, by the time his child reach'd girlhood's bounds, The sum had ris'n to two-and-twenty pounds.

Our cautious legislature—well 'tis known— Round savings-banks a guardian fence has thrown: 'Tis easy to pay into them, no doubt, Though any thing but easy to draw out. And so JAMES TAYLOR found; for on a day He wanted twenty pounds a bill to pay, And, short of cash, unto the bank applied; Failing some form of law, he was denied!

JAMES TAYLOR humm'd and haw'd—look'd blank and blue;— In short, JAMES TAYLOR knew not what to do: His creditor was stern—the bill was over due. As to a friend he did his plight deplore— The worthy dame of whom I spoke before— (It might cause pain to give the name she owns, So let me use the pseudonym of JONES); "TAYLOR," said MRS. JONES, "as I'm a friend, I do not care if I the money lend. But even friends security should hold: Give me security—I'll lend the gold." "This savings-bank deposit-book!" he cries. "See—in my daughter's name the sum that lies!" She saw—and, satisfied, the money lent; Wherewith JAMES TAYLOR went away content. But now what cares seize MRS. JONES'S breast! What terrors throng her once unbroken rest! Cash she could keep, in many a secret nook— But where to stow away JAMES TAYLOR'S book? Money is heavy: where 'tis put 't will stay; Paper—as WILLIAM COBBETT used to say— Will make wings to itself, and fly away! Long she devised: new plans the old ones chase, Until at last she hit upon a place. Was't VENUS that the strange concealment planned, Or rather PLUTUS'S irreverent hand? Good MRS. JONES was of a scraggy make; But when did woman vanity forsake? What nature sternly to her form denied, A Bustle's ample aid had well supplied, Within whose vasty depths the book might safely hide!

'Twas thought—'twas done! by help of ready pin, The sawdust was let out, the book put in. Henceforth—at home—abroad—where'er she moved, Behind her lurk'd the volume that she loved. She laughed to scorn the cut-purse and his sleight: No fear of burglars scared her through the night;

But ah, what shrine is safe from greed of gold, What fort against cupidity can hold? Can stoutest buckram's triple fold keep in, The ODOR LUCRI—the strong scent of TIN? For which CHUBB's locks are weak, and MILNER's safes are thin.

Some time elapsed—the time required by law, Which past, JAMES TAYLOR might the money draw, His kind but cautious creditor to pay, So to the savings-bank they took their way. There MRS. JONES with modesty withdrew— To do what no rude eye might see her do— And soon returning—with a blushing look, Unmarked by TAYLOR, she produced the book. Which he, presenting, did the sum demand Of MR. TOMKINS, the cashier so bland.

What can there be upon the red-lined page That TOMKINS's quick eye should so engage? What means his invitation to J.T., To "Walk in for a moment"—"he would see"— "Only a moment"—"'twas all right, no doubt," "It could not be"—"and yet"—here he slipped out, Leaving JAMES TAYLOR grievously perplexed, And MRS. JONES by his behavior vexed. "What means the man by treating people so?" Said TAYLOR, "I am a loss to know." Too soon, alas, the secret cause they knew! TOMKINS return'd, and, with him, one in blue— POLICEMAN X, a stern man and a strong, Who told JAMES TAYLOR he must "come along"— And TOMKINS, seeing MRS. JONES aghast, Revealed the book was forged—from first to last!

Who can describe the wrath of MRS. JONES? The chill of fear that crept through TAYLOR'S bones? The van—the hand-cuffs—and the prison cell Where pined JAMES TAYLOR—wherefore pause to tell? Soon came the Assizes—and the legal train; In form the clerk JAMES TAYLOR did arraign; And though his council mustered tears at will, And made black white with true Old Bailey skill, TAYLOR, though MRS. JONES for mercy sued, Was doomed to five years' penal servitude; And in a yellow suit turned up with gray, To Portland prison was conveyed away!

Time passed: forgot JAMES TAYLOR and his shame— When lo—one day unto the bank there came A new JAMES TAYLOR—a new MRS. JONES— And a new book, which TOMKINS genuine owns! "Two TAYLORS and two JONESES and two books"— Thought wary TOMKINS, "this suspicious looks— "The former TAYLOR, former JONES I knew— These are imposters-yet the book is true!" When like a flash upon his mind it burst— Who brought the second book had forged the first!

Again was summon'd X, the stern, the strong— Again that pair were bid to "Come along!" The truth before the justices appear'd, And wrong'd JAMES TAYLOR'S character was clear'd.

In evil hour—by what chance ne'er was known, Whether the bustle's seam had come unsewn, Or MRS. JONES by chance had laid aside The artificial charms that decked her side— But so it was, how or whene'er assailed— The treacherous hiding-place was tried—and failed!

The book was ta'en—a forged one fill'd its place;- And MRS. JONES was robb'd—not to her face— And poor JAMES TAYLOE doom'd to trial and disgrace!

Who shall describe her anguish—her remorse? James Taylor was at once released, of course; And Mrs. Jones, repentant, inly swore Henceforth to carry, what she'd keep, before.

My tale is told—and, what is more, 'tis true: I read it in the papers—so may you. And this its moral: Mrs. Joneses all— Though reticules may drop, and purses fall, Though thieves may unprotected females hustle, Never invest your money in a bustle.



STANZAS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL. PUNCH.

I.

ON A TEAR WHICH ANGELINA OBSERVED TRICKLING DOWN MY NOSE AT DINNER TIME.

Nay, fond one I will ne'er reveal Whence flowed that sudden tear: The truth 't were kindness to conceal From thy too anxious ear.

How often when some hidden spring Of recollected grief Is rudely touched, a tear will bring The bursting breast relief!

Yet 't was no anguish of the soul, No memory of woes, Bade that one lonely tearlet roll Adown my chiseled nose:

But, ah! interrogation's note Still twinkles in thine eye; Know then that I have burnt my throat With this confounded pie!

II.

OM MY REFUSING ANGELINA A KISS UNDER THE MISTLETOE

Nay, fond one, shun that misletoe, Nor lure me 'neath its fatal bough: Some other night 't were joy to go, But ah! I must not, dare not now! 'Tis sad, I own, to see thy face Thus tempt me with its giggling glee, And feel I can not now embrace The opportunity—and thee.

'Tis sad to think that jealousy's Sharp scissors may our true love sever; And that my coldness now may freeze Thy warm affection, love, forever. But ah! to disappoint our bliss, A fatal hind'rance now is stuck:'Tis not that I am loath to kiss, But, dearest, list—I DINED OFF DUCK!

III.

ON MY FINDING ANGELINA STOP SUDDENLY IN A RAPID AFTER-SUPPER POLKA AT MRS. TOMPKINS'S BALL.

EDWIN. "Maiden, why that look of sadness? Whence that dark o'erclouded brow? What hath stilled thy bounding gladness, Changed thy pace from fast to slow? Is it that by impulse sudden Childhood's hours thou paus'st to mourn? Or hath thy cruel EDWIN trodden Right upon thy favorite corn?

"Is it that for evenings wasted Some remorse thou 'gin'st to feel? Or hath that sham champagne we tasted Turned thy polka to a reel? Still that gloom upon each feature? Still that sad reproachful frown?" ANGELINA. "Can't you see, you clumsy creature, All my back hair's coming down!"



COLLOQUY ON A CAB-STAND. ADAPTED FOR THE BOUDOIR. PUNCH.

"OH! WILLIAM," JAMES was heard to say— JAMES drove a hackney cabriolet: WILLIAM, the horses of his friend, With hay and water used to tend. "Now, tell me, WILLIAM, can it be, That MAYNE has issued a decree, Severe and stern, against us, planned Of comfort to deprive our Stand?"

"I fear the tale is all too true," Said WILLIAM, "on my word I do." "Are we restricted to the Row And from the footpath?" "Even so."

"Must our companions be resigned, We to the Rank alone confined?" "Yes; or they apprehend the lads Denominated Bucks and Cads."

"Dear me!" cried JAMES, "how very hard And are we, too, from beer debarred?" Said WILLIAM, "While remaining here We also are forbidden beer."

"Nor may we breathe the fragrant weed?" "That's interdicted too." "Indeed!" "Nor in the purifying wave Must we our steeds or chariots lave."

"For private drivers, at request, It is SIR RICHARD MAYNE'S behest That we shall move, I understand?" "Such, I believe, IS the command"

"Of all remains of food and drink Left by our animals I think, We are required to clear the ground?" "Yes: to remove them we are bound."

"These mandates should we disobey—" "They take our licenses away." "That were unkind. How harsh our lot!" "It is indeed." "Now is it not?"

"Thus strictly why are we pursued?" "It is alleged that we are rude; The people opposite complain, Our lips that coarse expressions stain."

"Law, how absurd!" "And then, they say We smoke and tipple all the day, Are oft in an excited state, Disturbance, noise, and dirt create."

"What shocking stories people tell! I never! Did you ever?—Well— Bless them!" the Cabman mildly sighed. "May they be blest!" his Friend replied.



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. AN ENGLISH CRITICISM PUNCH.

You, who hold in grace and honor, Hold, as one who did you kindness When he publish'd former poems, Sang Evangeline the noble, Sang the golden Golden Legend, Sang the songs the Voices utter Crying in the night and darkness, Sang how unto the Red Planet Mars he gave the Night's First Watches, Henry Wadsworth, whose adnomen (Coming awkward, for the accents, Into this his latest rhythm) Write we as Protracted Fellow, Or in Latin, LONGUS COMES— Buy the Song of Hiawatha.

Should you ask me, Is the poem Worthy of its predecessors, Worthy of the sweet conception, Of the manly nervous diction, Of the phrase, concise or pliant, Of the songs that sped the pulses, Of the songs that gemm'd the eyelash, Of the other works of Henry? I should answer, I should tell you, You may wish that you may get it— Don't you wish that you may get it?

Should you ask me, Is it worthless, Is it bosh and is it bunkum, Merely facile flowing nonsense, Easy to a practiced rhythmist, Fit to charm a private circle, But not worth the print and paper David Bogue hath here expended? I should answer, I should tell you, You're a fool and most presumptuous. Hath not Henry Wadsworth writ it? Hath not PUNCH commanded "Buy it?"

Should you ask me, What's its nature? Ask me, What's the kind of poem? Ask me in respectful language, Touching your respectiful beaver, Kicking back your manly hind-leg, Like to one who sees his betters; I should answer, I should tell you, 'Tis a poem in this meter, And embalming the traditions, Fables, rites, and suspepstitions, Legends, charms, and ceremonials Of the various tribes of Indians, From the land of the Ojibways, From the land of the Dacotahs, From the mountains, moors, and fenlands, Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, Finds its sugar in the rushes: From the fast-decaying nations, Which our gentle Uncle Samuel Is improving, very smartly, From the face of all creation, Off the face of all creation.

Should you ask me, By what story, By what action, plot, or fiction, All these matters are connected? I should answer, I should tell you, Go to Bogue and buy the poem, Publish'd neatly, at one shilling, Publish'd sweetly, at five shillings. Should you ask me, Is there music In the structure of the verses, In the names and in the phrases? Pleading that, like weaver Bottom, You prefer your ears well tickled; I should answer, I should tell you, Henry's verse is very charming; And for names—there's Hiawatha, Who's the hero of the poem; Mudjeekeewis, that's the West Wind, Hiawatha's graceless father; There's Nokomis, there's Wenonah— Ladies both, of various merit; Puggawangum, that's a war-club; Pau-puk-keewis, he's a dandy, "Barr'd with streaks of red and yellow; And the women and the maidens Love the handsome Pau-puk-keewis," Tracing in him PUNCH'S likeness. Then there's lovely Minnehaha— Pretty name with pretty meaning— It implies the Laughing-water; And the darling Minnehaha Married noble Hiawatha; And her story's far too touching To be sport for you, yon donkey, With your ears like weaver Bottom's, Ears like booby Bully Bottom.

Once upon a time in London, In the days of the Lyceum, Ages ere keen Arnold let it To the dreadful Northern Wizard, Ages ere the buoyant Mathews Tripp'd upon its boards in briskness— I remember, I remember How a scribe, with pen chivalrous, Tried to save these Indian stories From the fate of chill oblivion. Out came sundry comic Indians Of the tribe of Kut-an-hack-um. With their Chief, the clean Efmatthews, With the growling Downy Beaver, With the valiant Monkey's Uncle, Came the gracious Mari-Kee-lee, Firing off a pocket-pistol, Singing, too, that Mudjee-keewis (Shorten'd in the song to "Wild Wind,") Was a spirit very kindly. Came her Sire, the joyous Kee-lee, By the waning tribe adopted, Named the Buffalo, and wedded To the fairest of the maidens, But repented of his bargain, And his brother Kut-an-hack-ums Very nearly ohopp'd his toes off— Serve him right, the fickle Kee-lee. If you ask me, What this memory Hath to do with Hiawatha, And the poem which I speak of? I should answer, I should tell you, You're a fool, and most presumptuous; 'Tis not for such humble cattle To inquire what links and unions Join the thoughts, and mystic meanings, Of their betters, mighty poets, Mighty writers—PUNCH the mightiest; I should answer, I should tell you, Shut your mouth, and go to David, David, MR. PUNCH'S neighbor, Buy the Song of Hiawatha, Read, and learn, and then be thankful Unto PUNCH and Henry Wadsworth, PUNCH and noble Henry Wadsworth, Truer poet, better fellow, Than to be annoyed at jesting, From his friend, great PUNCH, who loves him.



COMFORT IN AFFLICTION. WILLIAM AYTOUN.

"Wherefore starts my bosom's lord? Why this anguish in thine eye? Oh, it seems as thy heart's chord Had broken with that sigh!

"Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray, Rest thee on my bosom now! And let me wipe the dews away, Are gathering on thy brow.

"There, again! that fevered start! What, love! husband! is thy pain? There is a sorrow in thy heart, A weight upon thy brain!

"Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er Deceive affection's searching eye; 'Tis a wife's duty, love, to share Her husband's agony.

"Since the dawn began to peep, Have I lain with stifled breath; Heard thee moaning in thy sleep, As thou wert at grips with death.

"Oh, what joy it was to see My gentle lord once more awake! Tell me, what is amiss with thee? Speak, or my heart will break!"

"Mary, thou angel of my life, Thou ever good and kind; 'Tis not, believe me, my dear wife, The anguish of the mind!

"It is not in my bosom, dear, No, nor my brain, in sooth; But Mary, oh, I feel it here, Here in my wisdom tooth!

"Then give,—oh, first, best antidote,— Sweet partner of my bed! Give me thy flannel petticoat To wrap around my head!"



THE HUSBAND'S PETITION. WILLIAM AYTOUN.

Come hither, my heart's darling, Come, sit upon my knee, And listen, while I whisper, A boon I ask of thee. You need not pull my whiskers So amorously, my dove; 'Tis something quite apart from The gentle cares of love.

I feel a bitter craving— A dark and deep desire, That glows beneath my bosom Like coals of kindled fire. The passion of the nightingale, When singing to the rose, Is feebler than the agony That murders my repose!

Nay, dearest! do not doubt me, Though madly thus I speak— I feel thy arms about me, Thy tresses on my cheek: I know the sweet devotion That links thy heart with mine— I know my soul's emotion Is doubly felt by thine:

And deem not that a shadow Hath fallen across my love: No, sweet, my love is shadowless, As yonder heaven above. These little taper fingers— Ah! Jane, how white they be!— Can well supply the cruel want That almost maddens me.

Thou wilt not sure deny me My first and fond request; I pray thee, by the memory Of all we cherish best— By all the dear remembrance Of those delicicious days, When, hand in hand, we wandered Along the summer braes:

By all we felt, unspoken, When 'neath the early moon, We sat beside the rivulet, In the leafy month of June; And by the broken whisper, That fell upon my ear, More sweet than angel-music, When first I woo'd thee, dear!

By that great vow which bound thee Forever to my side, And by the ring that made thee My darling and my bride! Thou wilt not fail nor falter, But bend thee to the task— A BOILED SHEEP'S HEAD ON SUNDAY Is all the boon I ask.



THE BITER BIT. WILLIAM AYTOUN.

The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair, And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, And happiness is everywhere, oh, mother, but with me!

They are going to the church, mother—I hear the marriage bell It booms along the upland—oh! it haunts me like a knell; He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, And closely to his side she clings—she does, the demirep!

They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood, The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood; And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear, Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere.

He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed, By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed; And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again; But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!

He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank and gold, He said I did not love him—he said my words were cold; He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game— And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done the same?

I did not know my heart, mother—I know it now too late; I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate; But no nobler suitor sought me—and he has taken wing, And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.

You may lay me in my bed, mother—my head is throbbing sore; And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before; And, if you'd please, my mother dear, your poor desponding child, Draw me a pot of beer, mother, and, mother, draw it mild!



A MIDNIGHT MEDITATION. BY SIR E———- B———- L———-. WILLIAM AYTOUN

Fill me once more the foaming pewter up! Another board of oysters, ladye mine! To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup. These mute inglorious Miltons are divine; And as I here in slippered ease recline, Quaffing of Perkins' Entire my fill, I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill. A nobler inspiration fires my brain, Caught from Old England's fine time-hallowed drink, I snatch the pot again and yet again, And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink, Fill me once more, I say, up to the brink! This makes strong hearts—strong heads attest its charm— This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawny arm!

But these remarks are neither here nor there. Where was I? Oh, I see—old Southey's dead! They'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair, And drain the annual butt—and oh, what head More fit with laurel to be garlanded Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil?

I know a grace is seated on my brow, Like young Apollo's with his golden beams; There should Apollo's bays be budding now: And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams That marks the poet in his waking dreams. When as his fancies cluster thick and thicker, He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor.

They throng around me now, those things of air, That from my fancy took their being's stamp: There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp; Their pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp, Roams through the starry wilderness of thought, Where all is every thing, and every thing is naught.

Yes, I am he, who sung how Aram won The gentle ear of pensive Madeline! How love and murder hand in hand may run, Cemented by philosophy serene, And kisses bless the spot where gore has been! Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime, And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime!

Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed Obscure philosophy's enchanting light! Until the public, wildered as they read, Believed they saw that which was not in sight— Of course 'twas not for me to set them right; For in my nether heart convinced I am, Philosophy's as good as any other bam.

Novels three-volumed I shall write no more— Somehow or other now they will not sell; And to invent new passions is a bore— I find the Magazines pay quite as well. Translating's simple, too, as I can tell, Who've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne, And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own.

Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed, Battered and broken are their early lyres. Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, Warmed his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires, And, worth a plum, nor bays, nor butt desires. But these are things would suit me to the letter, For though this Stout is good, old Sherry's greatly better.

A fice for your small poetic ravers, Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these! Shall they compete with him who wrote "Maltravers," Prologue to "Alice or the Mysteries?" No! Even now, my glance prophetic sees My own high brow girt with the bays about. What ho, within there, ho! another pint of STOUT!



THE DIRGE OF THE DRINKER. BY W——— E——— A———, ESQ. WILLIAM AYTOUN.

Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler down; He has dropp'd—that star of honor—on the field of his renown! Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees, If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please. Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurraing sink, Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink! Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor; See how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door! Widely o'er the earth I've wander'd; where the drink most freely flow'd, I have ever reel'd the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode. Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dream'd o'er heavy wet, By the fountains of Damascus I have quaff'd the rich Sherbet, Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock, On Johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccup'd o'er my hock; I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e'er Monsoon, Sangaree'd with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the Moon; In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danesman blind, I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth declined; Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the planter's rum, Drank with Highland dhuinie-wassels till each gibbering Gael grew dumb; But a stouter, bolder drinker—one that loved his liquor more— Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor! Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir, He has fallen, who rarely stagger'd—let the rest of us beware! We shall leave him, as we found him—lying where his manhood fell, 'Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well. Better't were we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and bosom bare, Pulled his Hobi's off, and turn'd his toes to taste the breezy air. Throw the sofa cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the gas, Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we pass, We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near and handy, Large supplies of soda water, tumblers bottomed well with brandy, So when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless thirst of his, Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un as he is!



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI. TO BON GAULTIER. WILLIAM AYTOUN.

ARGUMENT-An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus:

Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball, Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small, With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less, Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness! Dost thou remember, when with stately prance, Our heads went crosswise in the country dance; How soft, warm fingers, tipp'd like buds of balm, Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm; And how a cheek grew flush'd and peachy-wise At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes? Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing, Who like a dove, with its scarce-feather'd wing, Flutter'd at the approach of thy quaint swaggering! There's wont to be, at conscious times like these, An affectation of a bright-eyed ease— A crispy-cheekiness, if so I dare Describe the swaling of a jaunty air; And thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel, You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille. That smiling voice, although it made me start, Boil'd in the meek o'erlifting of my heart; And, picking at my flowers, I said with free And usual tone, "Oh yes, sir, certainly!"

Like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear, I heard the music burning in my ear, And felt I cared not, so thou wert with me, If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-a-vis. So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came, And took his place against us with his dame, I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk From the stern survey of the soldier-monk, Though rather more than full three-quarters drunk; But threading through the figure, first in rule, I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule. Ah, what a sight was that? Not prurient Mars, Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars— Not young Apollo, beamily array'd In tripsome guise for Juno's masquerade— Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth, Jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth, Look'd half so bold, so beautiful and strong, As thou when pranking thro' the glittering throng! How the calm'd ladies looked with eyes of love On thy trim velvet doublet laced above; The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river, Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver! So bare was thy fine throat, and curls of black So lightsomely dropp'd on thy lordly back. So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet, So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it, That my weak soul took instant flight to thee, Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery!

But when the dance was o'er, and arm in arm (The full heart beating 'gainst the elbow warm), We pass'd to the great refreshment hall, Where the heap'd cheese-cakes and the comfits small Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, to burn Around the margin of the negus urn; When my poor quivering hand you finger'd twice, And, with inquiring accents, whisper'd "Ice, Water, or cream?" I could no more dissemble, But dropp'd upon the couch all in a tremble. A swimming faintness misted o'er my brain, The corks seem'd starting from the brisk champagne, The custards fell untouch'd upon the floor, Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more!



LOUIS NAPOLEON'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY WILLIAM AYTOUN.

Guards! who at Smolensko fled— No—I beg your pardon—bled! For my Uncle blood you've shed, Do the same for me.

Now's the day and now's the hour, Heads to split and streets to scour; Strike for rank, promotion, power, Sawg, and eau de vie.

Who's afraid a child to kill? Who respects a shopman's till? Who would pay a tailor's bill? Let him turn and flee.

Who would burst a goldsmith's door, Shoot a dun, or sack a store? Let him arm, and go before— That is, follow me!

See the mob, to madness riled, Up the barricades have piled; In among them, man and child, Unrelentingly!

Shoot the men! there's scarcely one In a dozen's got a gun: Stop them, if they try to run, With artillery!

Shoot the boys! each one may grow Into—of the state—a foe (Meaning by the state, you know, My supremacy!)

Shoot the girls and women old! Those may bear us traitors bold— These may be inclined to scold Our severity.

Sweep the streets of all who may Rashly venture in the way, Warning for a future day Satisfactory.

Then, when still'd is ev'ry voice, We, the nation's darling choice, Calling on them to rejoice, Tell them, FRANCE IS FREE.



THE BATTLE OF THE BOULEVARD WILLIAM AYTOUN.

On Paris, when the sun was low, The gay "Comique" made goodly show, Habitues crowding every row To hear Limnandier's opera.

But Paris showed another sight, When, mustering in the dead of night, Her masters stood, at morning light, The crack shasseurs of Africa

By servants in my pay betrayed, Cavaignac, then, my prisoner made, Wrote that a circumstance delayed His marriage rite and revelry.

Then shook small Thiers, with terror riven; Then stormed Bedeau, while gaol-ward driven; And, swearing (not alone by Heaven), Was seized bold Lamoriciere.

But louder rose the voice of woe When soldiers sacked each cit's depot, And tearing down a helpless foe, Flashed Magnan's red artillery.

More, more arrests! Changarnier brave Is dragged to prison like a knave: No time allowed the swell to shave, Or use the least perfumery.

'Tis morn, and now Hortense's son (Perchance her spouse's too) has won The imperial crown. The French are done, Chawed up most incontestably.

Few, few shall write, and none shall meet; Suppressed shall be each journal-sheet; And every serf beneath my feet Shall hail the soldier's Emperor.



PUFFS POETICAL. WILLIAM AYTOUM

I.

PARIS AND HELEN.

As the youthful Paris presses Helen to his ivory breast, Sporting with her golden tresses, Close and ever closer pressed.

He said: "So let me quaff the nectar, Which thy lips of ruby yield; Glory I can leave to Hector, Gathered in the tented field.

"Let me ever gaze upon thee, Look into thine eyes so deep; With a daring hand I won thee, With a faithful heart I'll keep.

"Oh, my Helen, thou bright wonder, Who was ever like to thee? Jove would lay aside his thunder, So he might be blest like me.

"How mine eyes so fondly linger On thy soft and pearly skin; Scan each round and rosy finger, Drinking draughts of beauty in!

"Tell me, whence thy beauty, fairest! Whence thy cheek's enchanting bloom! Whence the rosy hue thou wearest, Breathing round thee rich perfume?"

Thus he spoke, with heart that panted, Clasped her fondly to his side, Gazed on her with look enchanted, While his Helen thus replied:

"Be no discord, love, between us, If I not the secret tell! 'Twas a gift I had of Venus,— Venus who hath loved me well.

"And she told me as she gave it, 'Let not e'er the charm be known, O'er thy person freely lave it, Only when thou art alone.'

"'Tis inclosed in yonder casket— Here behold its golden key; But its name—love, do not ask it, Tell't I may not, e'en to thee!"

Long with vow and kiss he plied her, Still the secret did she keep, Till at length he sank beside her, Seemed as he had dropped to sleep.

Soon was Helen laid in slumber, When her Paris, rising slow, Did his fair neck disencumber From her rounded arms of snow;

Then her heedless fingers oping, Takes the key and steals away, To the ebon table groping, Where the wondrous casket lay;

Eagerly the lid uncloses, Sees within it, laid aslope, Pear's Liquid Bloom of Roses, Cakes of his Transparent Soap!

II.

TARQUIN AND THE AUGUR.

Gingerly is good King Tarquin shaving, Gently glides the razor o'er his chin, Near him stands a grim Haruspex raving, And with nasal whine he pitches in, Church Extension hints, Till the monarch squints, Snicks his chin, and swears—a deadly sin!

"Jove confound thee, thou bare-legged impostor! From my dressing table get thee gone! Dost thou think my flesh is double Glo'ster? There again! That cut was to the bone! Get ye from my sight; I'll believe you're right When my razor cuts the sharping hone!"

Thus spoke Tarquin with a deal of dryness; But the Augur, eager for his fees, Answered—"Try it, your Imperial Highness, Press a little harder, if you please. There! the deed is done!" Through the solid stone Went the steel as glibly as through cheese.

So the Augur touched the tin of Tarquin, Who suspected some celestial aid: But he wronged the blameless Gods; for hearken! Ere the monarch's bet was rashly laid, With his searching eye Did the priest espy RODGER'S name engraved upon the blade.



REFLECTIONS OF A PROUD PEDESTRIAN. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

I saw the curl of his waving lash, And the glance of his knowing eye, And I knew that he thought he was cutting a dash, As his steed went thundering by.

And he may ride in the rattling gig, Or flourish the Stanhope gay, And dream that he looks exceeding big To the people that walk in the way;

But he shall think, when the night is still, On the stable-boy's gathering numbers, And the ghost of many a veteran bill Shall hover around his slumbers;

The ghastly dun shall worry his sleep, And constables cluster around him, And he shall creep from the wood-hole deep Where their specter eyes have found him!

Ay! gather your reins, and crack your thong, And bid your steed go faster; He does not know as he scrambles along, That he has a fool for his master;

And hurry away on your lonely ride, Nor deign from the mire to save me; I will paddle it stoutly at your side With the tandem that nature gave me!



EVENING. BY A TAILOR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

Day hath put on his jacket, and around His burning bosom buttoned it with stars. Here will I lay me on the velvet grass, That is like padding to earth's meager ribs, And hold communion with the things about me. Ah me! how lovely is the golden braid, That binds the skirt of night's descending robe! The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads, Do make a music like to rustling satin, As the light breezes smooth their downy nap.

Ha! what is this that rises to my touch, So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage? It is, it is that deeply injured flower, Which boys do flout us with;—but yet I love thee, Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout. Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright As these, thy puny brethren; and thy breath Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air; But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau, Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences, And growing portly in his sober garments.

Is that a swan that rides upon the water? O no, it is that other gentle bird, Which is the patron of our noble calling. I well remember, in my early years, When these young hands first closed upon a goose I have a scar upon my thimble finger, Which chronicles the hour of young ambition My father was a tailor, and his father, And my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors; They had an ancient goose,—it was an heir-loom From some remoter tailor of our race. It happened I did see it on a time When none was near, and I did deal with it, And it did burn me,—oh, most fearfully!

It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs, And leap elastic from the level counter, Leaving the petty grievances of earth, The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears, And all the needles that do wound the spirit, For such a pensive hour of soothing silence. Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress, Lays bare her shady bosom; I can feel With all around me;—I can hail the flowers That sprig earth's mantle,—and yon quiet bird, That rides the stream, is to me as a brother. The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets, Where Nature stows away her loveliness. But this unnatural posture of my legs Cramps my extended calves, and I must go Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion.



PHAETHON; OR, THE AMATEUR COACHMAN. JOHN G. SAXX

DAN PHAETHON—so the histories run— Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the SUN; Or rather of PHOEBUS—but as to his mother, Genealogists make a deuce of a pother, Some going for one, and some for another! For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer, This roaring young blade was the son of AURORA!

Now old Father PHOEBUS, ere railways begun To elevate funds and depreciate fun, Drove a very fast coach by the name of "THE SUN;" Running, they say, Trips every day (On Sundays and all, in a heathenish way). And lighted up with a famous array Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display, And dashing along like a gentleman's "shay." With never a fare, and nothing to pay!

Now PHAETHON begged of his doting old father, To grant him a favor, and this the rather, Since some one had hinted, the youth to annoy, That he wasn't by any means PHOEBUS'S boy! Intending, the rascally son of a gun, To darken the brow of the son of the SUN! "By the terrible Styx!" said the angry sire, While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire, "To prove your reviler an infamous liar, I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire!" "Then by my head," The youngster said, "I'll mount the coach when the horses are fed!— For there's nothing I'd choose, as I'm alive, Like a seat on the box, and a dashing drive!" "Nay, PHAETHON, don't— I beg you won't— Just stop a moment and think upon't! You're quite too young," continued the sage, "To tend a coach at your tender age! Besides, you see, 'T will really be Your first appearance on any stage! Desist, my child, The cattle are wild, And when their mettle is thoroughly 'riled,' Depend upon't, the coach'll be 'spiled'— They're not the fellows to draw it mild! Desist, I say, You'll rue the day— So mind, and don't be foolish, PHA!" But the youth was proud, And swore aloud, 'T was just the thing to astonish the crowd— He'd have the horses and wouldn't be cowed! In vain the boy was cautioned at large, He called for the chargers, unheeding the charge, And vowed that any young fellow of force, Could manage a dozen coursers, of course! Now PHOEBUS felt exceedingly sorry He had given his word in such a hurry, But having sworn by the Styx, no doubt He was in for it now, and couldn't back out.

So calling Phaethon up in a trice, He gave the youth a bit of advice:— "'Parce stimulis, utere loris!' (A "stage direction," of which the core is, Don't use the whip—they're ticklish things— But, whatever you do, hold on to the strings!) Remember the rule of the Jehu-tribe is, 'Medio tutissimus ibis' (As the Judge remarked to a rowdy Scotchman, Who was going to quod between two watchmen!) So mind your eye, and spare your goad, Be shy of the stones, and keep in the road!"

Now Phaethon, perched in the coachman's place, Drove off the steeds at a furious pace, Fast as coursers running a race, Or bounding along in a steeple-chase! Of whip and shout there was no lack, "Crack—whack— Whack—crack" Resounded along the horses' back!— Frightened beneath the stinging lash, Cutting their flanks in many a gash, On—on they sped as swift as a flash, Through thick and thin away they dash, (Such rapid driving is always rash!) When all at once, with a dreadful crash, The whole "establishment" went to smash! And Phaethon, he, As all agree, Off the coach was suddenly hurled, Into a puddle, and out of the world!

MORAL.

Don't rashly take to dangerous courses— Nor set it down in your table of forces, That any one man equals any four horses! Don't swear by the Styx!— It's one of Old Nick's Diabolical tricks To get people into a regular "fix," And hold 'em there as fast as bricks!



THE SCHOOL-HOUSE. [AFTER GOLDSMITH.] JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

Propt on the marsh, a dwelling now, I see The humble school-house of my A, B, C, Where well-drilled urchins, each behind his tire, Waited in ranks the wished command to fire, Then all together, when the signal came, Discharged their A-B ABS against the dame, Who, 'mid the volleyed learning, firm and calm, Patted the furloughed ferule on her palm, And, to our wonder, could detect at once Who flashed the pan, and who was downright dunce.

There young Devotion learned to climb with ease The gnarly limbs of Scripture family-trees, And he was most commended and admired Who soonest to the topmost twig perspired; Each name was called as many various ways As pleased the reader's ear on different days, So that the weather, or the ferule's stings, Colds in the head, or fifty other things, Transformed the helpless Hebrew thrice a week To guttural Pequot or resounding Greek, The vibrant accent skipping here and there Just as it pleased invention or despair; No controversial Hebraist was the Dame; With or without the points pleased her the same. If any tyro found a name too tough, And looked at her, pride furnished skill enough; She nerved her larynx for the desperate thing, And cleared the five-barred syllables at a spring.

Ah, dear old times! there once it was my hap, Perched on a stool, to wear the long-eared cap; From books degraded, there I sat at ease, A drone, the envy of compulsory bees.



EPIGRAMMATIC



EPIGRAMS OF BEN JONSON.

TO FINE GRAND.

What is't Fine Grand, makes thee my friendship fly, Or take an Epigram so fearfully, As't were a challenge, or a borrower's letter? The world must know your greatness is my debtor. IMPRIMIS, Grand, you owe me for a jest I lent you, on mere acquaintance, at a feast. ITEM, a tale or two some fortnight after, That yet maintains you, and your house in laughter. ITEM, the Babylonian song you sing; ITEM, a fair Greek poesy for a ring, With which a learned madam you bely. ITEM, a charm surrounding fearfully Your partie-per-pale picture, one half drawn In solemn cyprus, th' other cobweb lawn. ITEM, a gulling impress for you, at tilt. ITEM, your mistress' anagram, in your hilt. ITEM, your own, sew'd in your mistress' smock. ITEM, an epitaph on my lord's cock, In most vile verses, and cost me more pain, Than had I made 'em good, to fit your vein. Forty things more, dear Grand, which you know true, For which, or pay me quickly, or I'll pay you.

TO BRAINHARDY.

Hardy, thy brain is valiant, 'tis confest, Thou more; that with it every day dar'st jest Thyself into fresh brawls; when call'd upon, Scarce thy week's swearing brings thee off of one; So in short time, thou art in arrearage grown Some hundred quarrels, yet dost thou fight none; Nor need'st thou; for those few, by oath released, Make good what thou dar'st in all the rest. Keep thyself there, and think thy valor right, He that dares damn himself, dares more than fight.

TO DOCTOR EMPIRIC.

When men a dangerous disease did 'scape, Of old, they gave a cock to Aesculape; Let me give two, that doubly am got free; From my disease's danger, and from thee.

TO SIR ANNUAL FILTER.

Filter, the most may admire thee, though not I; And thou, right guiltless, may'st plead to it, why? For thy late sharp device. I say 'tis fit All brains, at times of triumph, should run wit; For then our water-conduits do run wine; But that's put in, thou'lt say. Why, so is thine.

ON BANKS THE USURER. Banks feels no lameness of his knotty gout, His moneys travel for him in and out, And though the soundest legs go every day, He toils to be at hell, as soon as they.

ON CHEVRIL THE LAWYER

No cause, nor client fat, will Cheveril leese, But as they come, on both sides he takes fees, And pleaseth both; for while he melts his grease For this; that wins, for whom he holds his peace.



EPIGRAMATIC VERSES BY SAMUEL BUTLER.

OPINION.

Opinion governs all mankind, Like the blind's leading of the blind; For he that has no eyes in 's head, Must be by a dog glad to be led; And no beasts have so little in 'em As that inhuman brute, Opinion. "Tis an infectious pestilence, The tokens upon wit and sense, That with a venomous contagion Invades the sick imagination: And, when it seizes any part, It strikes the poison to the heart." This men of one another catch, By contact, as the humors match. And nothing's so perverse in nature As a profound opiniator.

CRITICS.

Critics are like a kind of flies, that breed In wild fig-trees, and when they're grown up, feed Upon the raw fruit of the nobler kind, And, by their nibbling on the outward rind, Open the pores, and make way for the sun To ripen it sooner than he would have done.

HYPOCRISY.

Hypocrisy will serve as well To propagate a church, as zeal; As persecution and promotion Do equally advance devotion: So round white stones will serve, they pay, As well as eggs to make hens lay.

POLISH.

All wit and fancy, like a diamond, The more exact and curious 'tis ground, Is forced for every carat to abate, As much in value as it wants in weight.

THE GODLY.

A godly man, that has served out his time In holiness, may set up any crime; As scholars, when they've taken their degrees May set up any faculty they please.

PIETY.

Why should not piety be made, As well as equity, a trade, And men get money by devotion, As well as making of a motion? B' allow'd to pray upon conditions, As well as suitors in petitions? And in a congregation pray, No less than Chancery, for pay?

MARRIAGE.

All sorts of vot'ries, that profess To bind themselves apprentices To Heaven, abjure, with solemn vows, Not Cut and Long-tail, but a Spouse As the worst of all impediments To hinder their devout intents.

POETS.

It is not poetry that makes men poor; For few do write that were not so before; And those that have writ best, had they been rich. Had ne'er been clapp'd with a poetic itch; Had loved their ease too well to take the pains To undergo that drudgery of brains; But, being for all other trades unfit, Only t' avoid being idle, set up wit.

PUFFING.

They that do write in authors' praises, And freely give their friends their voices Are not confined to what is true; That's not to give, but pay a due: For praise, that's due, does give no more To worth, than what it had before; But to commend without desert, Requires a mastery of art, That sets a gloss on what's amiss, And writes what should be, not what is.

POLITICIANS.

All the politics of the great Are like the cunning of a cheat, That lets his false dice freely run, And trusts them to themselves alone, But never lets a true one stir, Without some fingering trick or slur; And, when the gamester doubts his play, Conveys his false dice safe away, And leaves the true ones in the lurch T' endure the torture of the search.

FEAR.

There needs no other charm, nor conjurer To raise infernal spirits up, but fear; That makes men pull their horns in, like a snail That's both a pris'ner to itself, and jail; Draws more fantastic shapes, than in the grains Of knotted wood, in some men's crazy brains; When all the cocks they think they see, and bulls, Are only in the insides of their skulls.

THE LAW.

The law can take a purse in open court While it condemns a less delinquent for't.

THE SAME.

Who can deserve, for breaking of the laws, A greater penance than an honest cause.

THE SAME.

All those that do but rob and steal enough, Are punishment and court-of-justice proof, And need not fear, nor be concerned a straw In all the idle bugbears of the law; But confidently rob the gallows too, As well as other sufferers, of their due.

CONFESSION.

In the Church of Rome to go to shrift Is but to put the soul on a clean shift.

SMATTERERS

All smatterers are more brisk and pert Than those that understand an art; As little sparkles shine more bright Than glowing coals, that give them light.

BAD WRITERS.

As he that makes his mark is understood To write his name, and 'tis in law as good, So he, that can not write one word of sense Believes he has as legal a pretense To scribble what he does not understand, As idiots have a title to their land.

THE OPINIONATIVE.

Opinionators naturally differ From other men; as wooden legs are stiffer Than those of pliant joints, to yield and bow, Which way soever they're design'd to go.

LANGUAGE OF THE LEARNED.

Were Tully now alive, he'd be to seek In all our Latin terms of art and Greek; Would never understand one word of sense The most irrefragable schoolman means: As if the Schools design'd their terms of art, Not to advance a science, but to divert; As Hocus Pocus conjures to amuse The rabble from observing what he does.

GOOD WRITING.

As 'tis a greater mystery in the art Of painting, to foreshorten any part, Than draw it out; so 'tis in books the chief Of all perfections to be plain and brief.

COURTIERS.

As in all great and crowded fairs Monsters and puppet-play are wares, Which in the less will not go off, Because they have not money enough; So men in princes' courts will pass That will not in another place.

INVENTIONS.

All the inventions that the world contains, Were not by reason first found out, nor brains, But pass for theirs who had the luck to light Upon them by mistake or oversight.

LOGICIANS.

Logicians used to clap a proposition, As justices do criminals, in prison, And, in as learn'd authentic nonsense, writ The names of all their moods and figures fit; For a logician's one that has been broke To ride and pace his reason by the book; And by their rules, and precepts, and examples, To put his wits into a kind of trammels.

LABORIOUS WRITERS.

Those get the least that take the greatest pains, But most of all i' th' drudgery of the brains, A natural sign of weakness, as an ant Is more laborious than an elephant; And children are more busy at their play, Than those that wiseliest pass their time away.

ON A CLUB OF SOTS.

The jolly members of a toping club, Like pipestaves, are but hoop'd into a tub; And in a close confederacy link, For nothing else but only to hold drink.

HOLLAND.

A country that draws fifty feet of water, In which men live as in the hold of Nature; And when the sea does in upon them break, And drown a province, does but spring a leak; That always ply the pump, and never think They can be safe, but at the rate they stink; That live as if they had been run a-ground, And, when they die, are cast away and drown'd; That dwell in ships, like swarms of rats, and prey Upon the goods all nations' fleets convey; And, when their merchants are blown up and cracked, Whole towns are cast away and wrecked; That feed, like cannibals, on other fishes, And serve their cousin-germans up in dishes: A land that rides at anchor, and is moor'd, In which they do not live, but go a-board.

WOMEN.

The souls of women are so small, That some believe they've none at all; Or if they have, like cripples, still They've but one faculty, the will; The other two are quite laid by To make up one great tyranny; And though their passions have most pow'r, They are, like Turks, but slaves the more To th' abs'lute will, that with a breath Has sovereign pow'r of life and death, And, as its little int'rests move, Can turn 'em all to hate or love; For nothing, in a moment, turn To frantic love, disdain, and scorn; And make that love degenerate T' as great extremity of hate; And hate again, and scorn, and piques, To flames, and raptures, and love-tricks.



EPIGRAMS OF EDMUND WALLEB.

A PAINTED LADY WITH ILL TEETH.

Were men so dull they could not see That Lyce painted; should they flee, Like simple birds, into a net, So grossly woven, and ill set, Her own teeth would undo the knot, And let all go that she had got. Those teeth fair Lyce must not show, If she would bite: her lovers, though Like birds they stoop at seeming grapes, Are dis-abus'd, when first she gapes: The rotten bones discover'd there, Show 'tis a painted sepulcher.

OF THE MARRIAGE OF THE DWARFS.

Design, or chance, makes others wive; But nature did this match contrive: EVE might as well have ADAM fled, As she denied her little bed To him, for whom heav'n seem'd to frame, And measure out, this only dame. Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly Of sad distrust, and jealousy: Secured in as high extreme, As if the world held none but them. To him the fairest nymphs do show Like moving mountains, topp'd with snow: And ev'ry man a POLYPHEME Does to his GALATEA seem; None may presume her faith to prove; He proffers death that proffers love. Ah CHLORIS! that kind nature thus From all the world had sever'd us: Creating for ourselves us two, As love has me for only you!



EPIGRAMS OF MATTHEW PRIOR.

A SIMILE.

Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop Thy head into a tin-man's shop? There, Thomas, didst thou never see ('Tis but by way of simile) A squirrel spend his little rage, In jumping round a rolling cage? The cage, as either side turn'd up, Striking a ring of bells a-top?— Mov'd in the orb, pleas'd with the chimes, The foolish creature thinks he climbs: But here or there, turn wood or wire, He never gets two inches higher. So fares it with those merry blades, That frisk it under Pindus' shades. In noble songs, and lofty odes, They tread on stars, and talk with gods; Still dancing in an airy round, Still pleased with their own verses' sound; Brought back, how fast soe'er they go, Always aspiring, always low.

THE FLIES.

Say, sire of insects, mighty Sol, (A Fly upon the chariot pole Cries out), what Blue-bottle alive Did ever with such fury drive? Tell Belzebub, great father, tell (Says t' other, perch'd upon the wheel), Did ever any mortal Fly Raise such a cloud of dust as I? My judgment turn'd the whole debate: My valor sav'd the sinking state. So talk two idle buzzing things; Toss up their heads, and stretch their wings. But let the truth to light be brought; This neither spoke, nor t' other fought: No merit in their own behavior: Both rais'd, but by their party's favor.

PHILLIS'S AGE.

How old may Phillis be, you ask, Whose beauty thus all hearts engages? To answer is no easy task: For she has really two ages.

Stiff in brocade, and pinch'd in stays, Her patches, paint, and jewels on; All day let envy view her face, And Phillis is but twenty-one.

Paint, patches, jewels laid aside, At night astronomers agree, The evening has the day belied; And Phillis is some forty-three.

TO THE DUKE DE NOALLES.

Vain the concern which you express, That uncall'd Alard will possess Your house and coach, both day and night, And that Macbeth was haunted less By Banquo's restless sprite.

With fifteen thousand pounds a-year, Do you complain, you can not bear An ill, you may so soon retrieve? Good Alard, faith, is modester By much, than you believe.

Lend him but fifty louis-d'or; And you shall never see him more: Take the advice; probatum est. Why do the gods indulge our store, But to secure our rest?

ON BISHOP ATTERBURY.

Meek Francis lies here, friend: without stop or stay, As you value your peace, make the best of your way. Though at present arrested by death's caitiff paw, If he stirs, he may still have recourse to the law. And in the King's Bench should a verdict be found, That by livery and seisin his grave is his ground, He will claim to himself what is strictly his due, And an action of trespass will straightway ensue, That you without right on his premises tread, On a simple surmise that the owner is dead.

FORMA BONUM FRAGILE.

What a frail thing is beauty! says baron Le Cras, Perceiving his mistress had one eye of glass: And scarcely had he spoke it, When she more confus'd as more angry she grew, By a negligent rage prov'd the maxim too true: She dropt the eye, and broke it.

EARNING A DINNER.

Full oft doth Mat. with Topaz dine, Eateth baked meats, drinketh Greek wine; But Topaz his own werke rehearseth; And Mat. mote praise what Topaz verseth. Now sure as priest did e'er shrive sinner, Full hardly earneth Mat. his dinner.

BIBO AND CHARON.

When Bibo thought fit from the world to retreat, And full of champagne as an egg's full of meat, He waked in the boat; and to Charon he said, He would be row'd back, for he was not yet dead. Trim the boat, and sit quiet, stern Charon replied: You may have forgot, you were drunk when you died.

THE PEDANT.

Lysander talks extremely well; On any subject let him dwell, His tropes and figures will content ye He should possess to all degrees The art of talk; he practices Full fourteen hours in four-and-twenty



EPIGRAMS OF JOSEPH ADDISON. THE COUNTESS OF MANCHESTER.

Written on his admission to the Kit-Cat Club, in compliance with the rule that every new member should name his toast, and write a verse in her praise.

While haughty Gallia's dames, that spread O'er their pale cheeks an artful red, Beheld this beauteous stranger there, In nature's charms divinely fair; Confusion in their looks they showed, And with unborrowed blushes glowed.

TO AN ILL-FAVORED LADY. [IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.]

While in the dark on thy soft hand I hung, And heard the tempting syren in thy tongue, What flames, what darts, what anguish I endured! But when the candle entered I was cured.

TO A CAPBICIOUS FEIEND. [IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.]

In all thy humors, whether grave or mellow, Thou 'rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow; Hast so much wit, and mirth, and spleen about thee, There is no living with thee, nor without thee.

TO A ROGUE. [IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.]

Thy beard and head are of a different dye: Short of one foot, distorted in an eye: With all these tokens of a knave complete, Should'st thou be honest, thou 'rt a dev'lish cheat.



EPIGRAMS OF ALEXANDER POPE.

ON MRS. TOFTS. (A CELEBRATED OPERA SINGER.)

So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song, As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus along; But such is thy avarice, and such is thy pride. That the beasts must have starved, and the poet have died.

TO A BLOCKHEAD.

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come: Knock as you please, there's nobody at home.

THE FOOL AND THE POET.

Sir, I admit your general rule, That every poet is a fool, But you yourself may serve to show it, That every fool is not a poet.



EPIGRAMS OF DEAN SWIFT.

ON BURNING A DULL POEM.

An ass's hoof alone can hold That poisonous juice, which kills by cold. Methought when I this poem read, No vessel but an ass's head Such frigid fustian could contain; I mean the head without the brain. The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts, Went down like stupefying draughts; I found my head begin to swim, A numbness crept through every limb. In haste, with imprecations dire, I threw the volume in the fire; When (who could think?) though cold as ice, It burnt to ashes in a trice. How could I more enhance its fame? Though born in snow, it died in flame.

TO A LADY, On hearing her praise her husband.

You always are making a god of your spouse; But this neither Reason nor Conscience allows; Perhaps you will say, 'tis in gratitude due, And you adore him because he adores you. Your argument's weak, and so you will find, For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind.

THE CUDGELED HUSBAND.

As Thomas was cudgel'd one day by his wife, He took to his heels and fled for his life: Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble, And saved him at once from the shrew and the rabble; Then ventured to give him some sober advice- But Tom is a person of honor so nice, Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning, That he sent to all three a challenge next morning. Three duels he fought, thrice ventured his life; Went home, and was cudgeled again by his wife.

ON SEEING VERSES WRITTEN UPON WINDOWS AT INNS

The sage, who said he should be proud Of windows in his breast, Because he ne'er a thought allow'd That might not be confest; His window scrawled by every rake, His breast again would cover, And fairly bid the devil take The diamond and the lover.

ON SEEING THE BUSTS OP NEWTON, LOCKE, AND OTHERS, Placed by Queen Caroline in Richmond Hermitage.

Louis the living learned fed, And raised the scientific head; Our frugal queen, to save her meat, Exalts the heads that cannot eat.

ON THE CHURCH'S DANGER.

Good Halifax and pious Wharton cry, The Church has vapors; there's no danger nigh. In those we love not, we no danger see, And were they hang'd, there would no danger be. But we must silent be, amid our fears, And not believe our senses, but the Peers. So ravishers that know no sense of shame, First stop her mouth, and then debauch the dame.

ON ONE DELACOURT'S COMPLIMENTING CARTHY ON HIS POETRY.

Carthy, you say, writes well—his genius true, You pawn your word for him—he'll vouch for you. So two poor knaves, who find their credit fail, To cheat the world, become each other's bail.

ON A USURER.

Beneath this verdant hillock lies, Demar, the wealthy and the wise. His heirs, that he might safely rest, Have put his carcass in a chest, The very chest in which, they say, His other self, his money lay. And, if his heirs continue kind To that dear self he left behind, I dare believe, that four in five Will think his better half alive.

TO MRS. BIDDY FLOYD; OR, THE RECEIPT TO FORM A BEAUTY.

When Cupid did his grandsire Jove entreat To form some Beauty by a new receipt, Jove sent, and found, far in a country scene, Truth, innocence, good nature, look serene: From which ingredients first the dext'rous boy Pick'd the demure, the awkward, and the coy. The Graces from the court did next provide Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride: These Venus cleans from every spurious grain Of nice coquet, affected, pert, and vain. Jove mix'd up all, and the best clay employ'd; Then call'd the happy composition FLOYD.

THE REVERSE; OR, MRS. CLUDD.

Venus one day, as story goes, But for what reason no man knows, In sullen mood and grave deport, Trudged it away to Jove's high court; And there his Godship did entreat, To look out for his best receipt: And make a monster strange and odd, Abhorr'd by man and every god. Jove, ever kind to all the fair, Nor e'er refused a lady's prayer, Straight oped 'scrutoire, and forth he took A neatly bound and well-gilt book; Sure sign that nothing enter'd there, But what was very choice and rare. Scarce had he turn'd a page or two— It might be more, for aught I know; But, be the matter more or less, 'Mong friends 't will break no squares, I guess. Then, smiling, to the dame quoth he, Here's one will fit you to a T. But, as the writing doth prescribe, 'Tis fit the ingredients we provide. Away he went, and search'd the stews, And every street about the Mews; Diseases, impudence, and lies, Are found and brought him in a trice From Hackney then he did provide, A clumsy air and awkward pride; From lady's toilet next he brought Noise, scandal, and malicious thought. These Jove put in an old close-stool, And with them mix'd the vain, the fool.

But now came on his greatest care, Of what he should his paste prepare; For common clay or finer mold Was much too good, such stuff to hold At last he wisely thought on mud; So raised it up, and call'd it—CLUDD. With this, the lady well content, Low curtsey'd, and away she went.

THE PLACE OF THE DAMNED.

All folks who pretend to religion and grace, Allow there's a HELL, but dispute of the place: But if HELL may by logical rules be defined The place of the damn'd—I'll tell you my mind. Wherever the damn'd do chiefly abound, Most certainly there is HELL to be found: Damn'd poets, damn'd critics, damn'd blockheads, damn'd knaves; Damn'd senators bribed, damn'd prostitute slaves; Damn'd lawyers and judges, damn'd lords and damn'd squires; Damn'd spies and informers, damn'd friends and damn'd liars; Damn'd villains, corrupted in every station; Dama'd time-serving priests all over the nation; And into the bargain I'll readily give you Damn'd ignorant prelates, and councillors privy. Then let us no longer by parsons be flamm'd, For we know by these marks the place of the damn'd: And HELL to be sure is at Paris or Rome. How happy for us that it is not at home!

THE DAY OF JUDGMENT.

With a world of thought oppress'd, I sunk from reverie to rest. A horrid vision seized my head, I saw the graves give up their dead! Jove, arm'd with terrors, bursts the skies, And thunder roars and lightning flies; Amazed, confused, its fate unknown, The world stands trembling at his throne! While each pale sinner hung his head, Jove, nodding, shook the heavens, and said: "Offending race of human kind, By nature, reason, learning, blind; You who, through frailty, stepp'd aside; And you, who never fell from pride: You who in different sects were shamm'd, And come to see each other damn'd; (So some folk told you, but they knew No more of Jove's designs than you); —The world's mad business now is o'er, And I resent these pranks no more. —I to such blockheads set my wit! I damn such fools!—Go, go, you're bit."



PAULUS THE LAWYER. LINDSAY.

"A slave to crowds, scorch'd with the summer's heats, In courts the wretched lawyer toils and sweats; While smiling Nature, in her best attire, Regales each sense, and vernal joys inspire. Can he, who knows that real good should please Barter for gold his liberty and ease?" This Paulus preach'd:—When, entering at the door, Upon his board the client pours the ore: He grasps the shining gifts, pores o'er the cause, Forgets the sun, and dozes o'er the laws.



EPIGRAMS BY THOMAS SHERIDAN.

ON A CARICATURE.

If you say this was made for friend Dan, you belie it, I'll swear he's so like it that he was made by it.

ON DEAN SWIFT'S PROPOSED HOSPITAL FOR LUNATICS

Great wits to madness nearly are allied, This makes the Dean for kindred THUS provide.

TO A DUBLIN PUBLISHER. Who displayed a bust of Dean Swift in his window, while publishing Lord Orrery's offensive remarks upon the Dean.

Faulkner! for once thou hast some judgment shown, By representing Swift transformed to stone; For could he thy ingratitude have known, Astonishment itself the work had done!



WHICH IS WHICH. BYRON.

"God bless the King! God bless the faith's defender! God bless—no harm in blessing—the Pretender. But who that pretender is, and who that king, God bless us all, is quite another thing."



ON SOME LINES OF LOPEZ DE VEGA. DR. JOHNSON.

If the man who turnips cries, Cry not when his father dies, 'Tis a proof that he had rather Have a turnip than his father.



ON A FULL-LENGTH PORTRAIT OF BEAU MARSH. Placed between the busts of Newton and Pope. LORD CHESTERFIELD

"Immortal Newton never spoke More truth than here you'll find; Nor Pope himself e'er penn'd a joke More cruel on mankind.

"The picture placed the busts between, Gives satire all its strength; Wisdom and Wit are little seen— But Folly at full length."



ON SCOTLAND. CLEVELAND.

"Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom; Nor forced him wander, but confined him home."



EPIGRAMS OF PETER PINDAR.

EDMUND BURKE'S ATTACK ON WARREN HASTINGS

Poor Edmund sees poor Britain's setting sun: Poor Edmund GROANS—and Britain is UNDONE!

Reader! thou hast, I do presume (God knows though) been in a snug room, By coals or wood made comfortably warm, And often fancied that a storm WITHOUT, Hath made a diabolic rout— Sunk ships, tore trees up—done a world of harm.

Yes, thou hast lifted up thy tearful eyes, Fancying thou heardst of mariners the cries; And sigh'd, "How wretched now must thousands be! Oh! how I pity the poor souls at sea!" When, lo! this dreadful tempest, and his roar, A ZEPHYR—in the key-hole of the door!

Now may not Edmund's howlings be a sigh Pressing through Edmund's lungs for loaves and fishes, On which he long hath looked with LONGING eye To fill poor Edmund's not o'erburden'd dishes?

Give Mun a sup—forgot will be complaint; Britain be safe, and Hastings prove a SAINT.

ON AN ARTIST Who boasted that his pictures had hung near those of Sir Joshua Reynolds in the Exhibition.

A shabby fellow chanc'd one day to meet The British Roscius in the street, Garrick, on whom our nation justly brags— The fellow hugg'd him with a kind embrace— "Good sir, I do not recollect your face," Quoth Garrick—"No!" replied the man of rags.

"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— 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 CONCLUSION OF HIS ODES

"FINISH'D!" a disappointed artist cries, With open mouth, and straining eyes; Gaping for praise like a young crow for meat— "Lord! why have you not mentioned ME!" Mention THEE! Thy IMPUDENCE hath put me in a SWEAT— What rage for fame attends both great and small Better be D—N'D, than mention'd NOT AT ALL!