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- JACK stole his discourse from the fam'd 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- How shall we determine? On a Lady who squinted. As Will along the floor had laid Even envy must agree; To a Gentleman who was obliged to retreat for THAT Cotta is so pale, so spare, On the Dutchess of Devonshire. On the Phrase, " Killing Time." Translated from Voltaire. "THERE's scarce a point wherein mankind So well as in their boast of killing me. "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, Epitaph. HERE is my much-lov'd Celia laid, 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. Lament for Madam Blaize, She strove the neighbourhood to please, At church with silks and satins new, By twenty beaux and more; But now, her wealth and finery fled, Let us lament in sorrow sore; For Kent-street well may say, That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more, 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 King praises but one Chevalier, On Mr. Churchill's Death. SAYS Tom to Richard, "Churchill's dead." JACK brags he never dines at home, To Chloe. By PETER PINDAR. DEAR Chloe, well I know the swain, Who gladly would embrace thy chain, And who, alas! can blame 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! 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. Then think not, though abridg'd by fate, On a whole Family cut off by the Small-pow Though far remov'd from regal state, I A DOCTOR there is of so humble a grace, Then sure you will say he's deficient in brain; 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, 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; What though to other nymphs he flies, That treach'rous won thy artless car? 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, Man's call'd thy lord-affliction's heir! And thou art slave to none. And blest with him to rove! Unstain'd by guilt thy moments fly Oh! that my heart, like thine, could taste 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; To know what letters spelt my name And all that thou shalt be. What glitt'ring honors, or high trust, Nor will the sparkling atoms show Vain search if here the source thou'dst know, Of nobles, or thyself. The mould will yield no evidence Learn then the vanity of birth; Condition, honors, name, The substance just the same. Bid av'rice and ambition view Th' extent of all their gains; Haste, lift thy thoughts from earthly things And leave that grov'ling pride to kings, Let virtue be thy radiant guide, The Negro's Complaint. WIDE over the tremulous sea Breath'd soft on the bosom of night. And pour'd forth his sorrowful tale; His sighs pass'd unheard on the gale. Ere o'er the salt waves thou wert borne! Nor dream'd of the sorrow to come. 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, Drink deep of the stream of my heart! That lingers so long from the grave. 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, She beckons, and I must pursue. Elegy to the Memory of Miss Louise Harvey. Accept these tributary drops-these sighs! 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.. 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. The rudeness of the winter's night? Poor wretch!-you sigh, you would unfold You lov'd, believ'd, and were undone. Is all the joy I can bestow; One moment from a life of woe. To heaven is rais'd-Poor girl, adieu! 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. |