Who, still preserving an unblemish'd name, But while it hides, it elegantly tells
Ne'er meanly strove to taint a neighbour's With what benevolence her bosom swells;
fame:
[her part Here's beauty mental, moral, and divine,
Who play'd-as, reader, thou shouldst do-To charm the lover, and his thoughts refine.
With inward peace and rectitude of heart;
Who, christian-like, resign'd her final breath,
And, dying free from censure-smil'd at death.

SA

Epigram.

AYS a beau to a lady, Pray name if you can,
Of all your acquaintance, the handsomest

man.

PARADOX.

FOUR people sat down in one evening to plar,
They play'd all that eve, and parted nextd,
Cou'd you think, when you're told, as thus they

all sat,

Bet;

No other play'd with them, nor was the que The lady replied, If you'd have me speak true,Yet, when they rose up, each gained a grata, He's the handsomest man that's the most un- Tho' none of'em lost to the amount of a pers

like you.

On a Bowl of Punch.

WHENE'ER a bowl of punchi we make,

Four striking opposites we take;

The strong, the small, the sharp, the sweet,
Together mix'd, most kindly meet;
And when they happily unite,
The bowl is pregnant with delight."
In conversation thus we find,
That, four men, differently inclin'd;
With talents each distinct, and each
Mark'd by peculiar powers of speech;
With tempers too, as much the same
As milk and verjuice, frost and flame;
Their parts by properly sustaining,
May all prove highly entertaining.

A Description of London.
HOUSES, churches, mix'd together,
Streets unpleasant, in all weather;
Prisons, palaces contiguous,
Gates, a bridge, the Thames irriguous;
Gaudy things enough to tempt ye,
Showy outsides, insides empty;
Bubbles, trades, mechanic arts,
Coaches, wheelbarrows, and carts;
Warrants, bailiffs, bills unpaid,
Lords of laundresses afraid;
Rogues that nightly rob and shoot men,
Hangmen, aldermen, and footmen;
Lawyers, poets, priests, physicians,
Noble, simple, all conditions;
Worth-beneath a threadbare cover,
Villany-bedaub'd all over;
Women, black, red, fair, and grey,
Prudes, and such as never pray;
Handsome, ugly, noisy, still,
Some that will not, some that will;
Many a beau without a shilling,
Many a widow not unwilling;
Many a bargain if you strike it,
This is London:-How d'ye like it?

On a young Lady.
BEHOLD a nymph with ev'ry virtue grac'd,
Minerva's head on Venus' shoulders plac'd!
Kind nature here displays her nicest art,

With sweet relievos hides the soundest heart;

Three or four lawyers, three or four lyars
Three or four constables, three or four cr
Three or four parishes bringing appeals,
Three or four writings, and three or four-
Three or four bastards, three or four whe
Tag, rag, and bob-tail, three or four scor
Three or four statutes, misunderstood,
Three or four paupers, all praying for too
Three or four roads that never were made
Three or four scolds-and the session !" ?**

Conveying his wife to her place of long rest;

Then pass by wealth and power, for better sure
It is, with some kind swain to play secure;
And he, dear girl, who does your charms adore,
Now asks your leave; O! let him soon say more.

To-morrow. An Epigram.

TO-MORROW you will live, you always cry:
In what far country does to-morrow lie,
That 'tis so mighty long ere it arrive?
Beyond the Indies doth this morrow live?
'Tis so far fetch'd, this morrow, that I fear
"Twill be both very old, and very dear.
To-morrow I will live, the fool does say,
To-day's too late : the wise liv'd yesterday.

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

sure,

[sure?

Parish Clerk.

For why should we thus make a toil of a plea-STERNHOLD and Hopkins had great qualins,

On Six Sorts of People who heep Fasts. THE miser fasts because he will not eat,

The poor man fasts because he has no meat; The rich man fasts with greedy mind to spare; The glutton fasts, to eat the greater share; The hypocrite, he fasts to seem more holy, The righteous man, to punish sin and folly.

Epitaph on a Blacksmith.
MY sledge and hammer lie declin'd,

My bellows too have lost their wind;
My fire's extinct, my forge decay'd,
My vice is in the dust all laid;
My coal is spent, my iron gone,
My nails are drove, my work is done.
My fire-dried corpse here lies at rest,
My soul, smoke-like, soars to be blest.

1 whimsical Epitaph, taken from a Stone Church.

TERE lies the body of Sarah Sexton,

Who as a wife did never vex one; We can't say that for her at th`next stone.

On Quadrille. To a young Lady. DEIGN, lovely nymph, to hear the least

bards,

When they translated David's Psalms,
To make the heart full glad:

But had it been poor David's fate,
To hear thee sing, and them translate,

By Jove, 'twould have made him mad.

Rhyme to Lisbon. By the same.
HERE'S a health to Kate,

Our Sovereign's mate,
Of the Royal House of Lisbon;
But the Devil take Hyde,
And the Bishop beside,
That made her bone of his bone.

On Punch.

HENCE, restless care and low design!

Hence, foreign compliments and wine!
Let generous Britons, brave and free,
Still boast their punch and honesty.
in a And we the guests who share the treat:
Life is a bumper, fill'd by fate,
Where, strong, insipid, sharp, and sweet,
Each other duly temp'ring, meet.
Awhile with joy the scene is crown'd,
Awhile the catch and toast go round;
And when the full carouse is o'er,
Death puffs the lights, and shuts the door.
Say then, physicians of each kind,
of Who cure the body or the mind,

| What harm in drinking can there be,
'Since punch and life so well agree?

The Disappointed Husband. ASCOLDING wife so long a sleep possess'd, Her spouse presum'd her soul was now

at rest;

Sable was call'd to hang the room with black,
And all their cheer was sugar, rolls, and sack,
Iwo mourning staffs stood sentry at the door,
And silence reign'd, who ne'er was there before;

The

Wrote, Resurrexit non est hic,
The priest's inscript thereon,

The cloaks, and tears, and handkerchiefs pre-A merry grig, whose greedy mind
par'd,
[yard, Long wish'd for such a prey,
They march'd in woeful pomp to the church-Respecting not the sacred words
When see, of narrow streets, what mischiefs That on the casket lay,
The very dead can't pass in quiet home; [come! Took out the gold, and blotting out
By some rude jolt the coffin lid was broke,
And Madam from her dream of death awoke.
Now all was spoil'd! The Undertaker's pay,
Sour faces, cakes and wine, quite thrown away.
But some years after, when the former scene
Was acted, and the coffin nail'd again;
The tender husband took especial care
To keep the passage from disturbance clear;
Charging the bearers that they tread aright,
Nor put his dear in such another fright.

Epigram by the Rev. Francis Blackburne, M. A. late Archdeacon of Cleveland. LYCIDAS to PRUDENTIA.

DESCEND, fair Stoick, from thy flights;

From nature learn to know
Our passions are the needful weights,
That make our virtues go.

PRUDENTIA to LYCIDAS.

True, Lycidas; but think not so
Another truth to shun;
Our passions make our virtues go,
But make our vices run.

An Epigram.

MUSIC's a crotchet the sober thinks vain,
The fiddle's a wooden projection;

Tunes are but flirts of a whimsical brain,

"Your God is rose and gone."

On the Death of Dr. Secker, late Archbishop of Canterbury.

WHILE Secker liv'd, he shew'd how see

should live;

[eye: While Secker taught, heaven open'd to o When Secker gave, we knew how angels give. When Secker died, we knew e'en Saints must

On Content. An Epigram.
TT is not youth can give content,
Nor is it wealth's decree;
It is a gift from Heaven sent,

Tho' not to thee or me.
It is not in the Monarch's crown,
Tho' he'd give millions for't:

Which the bottle brings best to perfection. It dwells not in his Lordship's frown,

Musicians are half-witted, merry, and mad,

The same are all those that admire 'em; They're fools if they play, unless they're well paid,

And the others are blockheads to hire 'em.

Or waits on him to court.
It is not in a coach and six,

It is not in a garter;
'Tis not in love or politics,

But 'tis in Hodge the carter.

The First Pair.

ADAM alone could not be easy,

So he must have a wife, an' please yt:
And how did he procure this wife,
To cheer his solitary life?
Out of a rib, Sir, from his side,
Was form'd this necessary bride.
But how did he the pain beguile?
How?-He slept sweetly all the while.
And when this rib was re-applied,
In woman's form to Adam's side,
How then, I pray you, did it answer?
"He never slept so sweet again, Sir."

'Tis an arrow in its flight,
Mocking the pursuing sight;
'Tis a vapour in the air;
'Tis a whirlwind rushing there;
Tis a short-liv'd fading flow's;
"Tis a rainbow on a show's;
"Tis a momentary ray
Smiling in a winter's day;
'Tis a torrent's rapid stream;
Tis a shadow; 'tis a dream;
"Tis the closing watch of night,
Dying at approaching light;
'Tis a landscape vainly gay,
Painted upon crumbling clay;
'Tis a lamp that wastes its fires!
"Tis a smoke that quick expires;
"Tis a bubble, 'tis a sigh:
Be prepar'd, O Man! to die.

Here lies a brain of odd conceit;

Here lie two hands that always shak'd:

Here lies a heart that often beat:
Here lie two eyes that daily wept,

Ford,+ Grat-And in the night butseldom slept ;
Here lies a tongue that whining talk'd;
Here lie two feet that feebly walk'd;
Here lie the midriff and the breast,
With loads of indigestion prest;
Here lies the liver, full of bile,

Has this any likeness to good Madam Sheridan?

An Epigram,

On seeing a young Lady writing Verses with a That ne'er secreted proper chyle;

Hole in her Stocking.

To see a Lady of such grace,

With so much sense and such a face,
So slatternly, is shocking:

O! if you would with Venus vie,
Your pen and poetry lay by,

And learn to mend your stocking.

Here lie the bowels, human tripes,
Tortur'd with wind and twisting gripes;
Here lies the livid dab, the spleen,
The source of life's sad tragic scene;
That left side weight that clogs the blood,
And stagnates nature's circling flood:
Here lie the nerves, so often twitch'd
With painful cramps and poignant stitch:
Here lies the back, oft rack'd with paias,
Corroding kidneys, loins and reins;
Here lies the skin by scurvy fed,
With pimples and eruptions red!
Here lies the man, from top to toe,
That fabric fram'd for pain and wce.

A Poem.
By Sir WALTER RALEIGH.
SHALL I like an hermit dwell

On a rock or in a cell,
Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it where I may
Meet a rival ev'ry day!
If she undervalue me,
What care I how fair she be?

The Dean's friends.