Chapter XX: Canto THE SECOND: Matrimony (6)

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!

THE LEX TALIONIS UPON BENJAMIN WEST

West tells the world that Peter can not rhyme--
Peter declares, point blank, that West can't paint.
West swears I've not an atom of sublime--
I swear he hath no notion of a saint;

And that his cross-wing'd cherubim are fowls, Baptized by naturalists, owls: Half of the meek apostles, gangs of robbers; His angels, sets of brazen-headed lubbers.

The Holy Scripture says, "All flesh is grass,"
With Mr. West, all flesh is brick and brass;
Except his horse-flesh, that I fairly own
Is often of the choicest Portland stone.
I've said it too, that this artist's faces
Ne'er paid a visit to the graces:

That on expression he can never brag:
Yet for this article hath he been studying,
But in it never could surpass a pudding-
No, gentle reader, nor a pudding-bag.

I dare not say, that Mr. West Can not sound criticism impart: I'm told the man with technicals is blest, That he can talk a deal upon the art; Yes, he can talk, I do not doubt it-- "About it, goddess, and about it."

Thus, then, is Mr. West deserving praise-- And let my justice the fair laud afford; For, lo! this far-fam'd artist cuts both ways, Exactly like the angel Gabriel's sword; The beauties of the art his CONVERSE shows, His CANVAS almost ev'ry thing that's bad! Thus at th' Academy, we must suppose, A man more useful never could be had: Who in himself, a host, so much can do; Who is both precept and example too!

BARRY'S ATTACK UPON SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS

When Barry dares the President to fly on,
'Tis like a mouse, that, work'd into a rage
Daring some dreadful war to wage,
Nibbles the tail of the Nemaean lion.

Or like a louse, of mettle full,
Nurs'd in some giant's skull--
Because Goliath scratch'd him as he fed,
Employs with vehemence his angry claws,
And gaping, grinning, formidable jaws,
To CARRY OFF the GIANT'S HEAD!

ON THE DEATH OP MR. HONE, R. A.

There's one R. A. more dead! stiff is poor Hone-- His works be with him under the same stone: I think the sacred art will not bemoan 'em; But, Muse!--DE MORTUIS NIL NISI BONUM-- As to his host, a TRAV'LER, with a sneer, Said of his DEAD SMALL-BEER. Go, then, poor Hone! and join a numerous train Sunk in OBLIVION'S wide pacific ocean; And may its WHALE-LIKE stomach feel no motion To cast thee, like a Jonah, up again.

ON GEORGE THE THIRD'S PATRONAGE OF BENJAMIN WEST.

Thus have I seen a child, with smiling face, A little daisy in the garden place, And strut in triumph round its fav'rite flow'r; Gaze on the leaves with infant admiration, Thinking the flow'r the finest in the nation, Then pay a visit to it ev'ry hour: Lugging the wat'ring-pot about, Which John the gard'ner was oblig'd to fill; The child, so pleas'd, would pour the water out, To show its marvelous gard'ning skill;

Then staring round, all wild for praises panting,
Tell all the world it was its own sweet planting;
And boast away, too happy elf,
How that it found the daisy all itself!

ANOTHER ON THE SAME.

In SIMILE if I may shine agen- Thus have I seen a fond old hen With one poor miserable chick, Bustling about a farmer's yard; Now on the dunghill laboring hard, Scraping away through thin and thick, Flutt'ring her feathers--making such a noise! Cackling aloud such quantities of joys, As if this chick, to which her egg gave birth, Was born to deal prodigious knocks, To shine the Broughton of game cocks, And kill the fowls of all the earth!

EPITAPH ON PETER STAGGS.

Poor Peter Staggs, now rests beneath this rail, Who loved his joke, his pipe, and mug of ale; For twenty years he did the duties well, Of ostler, boots, and waiter at the "Bell." But Death stepp'd in, and order'd Peter Staggs To feed his worms, and leave the farmers' nags. The church clock struck one--alas! 't was Peter's knell, Who sigh'd, "I'm coming--that's the ostler's bell!"

TRAY'S EPITAPH.

Here rest the relics of a friend below, Blest with more sense than half the folks I know: Fond of his ease, and to no parties prone, He damn'd no sect, but calmly gnaw'd his bone; Perform'd his functions well in ev'ry way- Blush, CHRISTIANS, if you can, and copy Tray.

ON A STONE THROWN AT A VERY GREAT MAN, BUT WHICH MISSED HIM.

Talk no more of the lucky escape of the head From a flint so unluckily thrown- I think very different, with thousands indeed, 'T was a lucky escape for the stone.

[The following stanza, on the death of Lady Mount E---'s favorite pig Cupid, is verily exceeded by nothing in the annals of impertinence.--P. P.]

A CONSOLATORY STANZA TO LADY MOUNT E---, ON THE DEATH OF HER PIG CUPID.

O dry that tear, so round and big, Nor waste in sighs your precious wind! Death only takes a single pig-- Your lord and son are still behind.

EPIGRAMS BY ROBERT BURNS.

THE POET'S CHOICE.

I murder hate, by field or flood, Though glory's name may screen us; In wars at hame I'll spend my blood, Life-giving wars of Venus.

The Jeities that I adore, Are social peace and plenty; I'm better pleased to make one more, Than be the death of twenty.

ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER.

Here souter Hood in death does sleep;-- To h-ll, if he's gane thither, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, He'll haud it weel thegither.

ON JOHN DOVE

INNKEEPER OF MAUCHLINE.

Here lies Johnny Pidgeon; What was his religion? Wha e'er desires to ken, To some other warl' Maun follow the carl, For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane!

Strong ale was ablution-- Small beer, persecution, A dram was MEMENTO MORI: But a full flowing bowl Was the saving his soul, And port was celestial glory.

ON ANDREW TURNER.

In se'enteen hunder an' forty-nine, Satan took stuff to mak' a swine, And cuist it in a corner; But wilily he chang'd his plan, And shaped it something like a man. And ca'd it Andrew Turner.

ON A SCOTCH COXCOMB

Light lay the earth on Billy's breast,
His chicken heart so tender;
But build a castle on his head,
His skull will prop it under.

ON GRIZZEL GRIM.

Here lies with death auld Grizzel Grim.
Lineluden's ugly witch;
O death, how horrid is thy taste,
To lie with such a b----!

ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE.

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a', He aften did assist ye; For had ye stayed whole years awa, Your wives they ne'er had missed ye. Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pass To school in bands thegither, O tread ye lightly on his grass-- Perhaps he was your father.

EPITAPH ON W---.

Stop, thief! dame Nature cried to Death, As Willie drew his latest breath; You have my choicest model ta'en; How shall I make a fool again?

ON A SUICIDE.

Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell, Planted by Satan's dibble-- Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd himsel' To save the Lord the trouble.

EPIGRAMS FROM THE GERMAN OF LESSING.

NIGER.

"He's gone at last--old Niger's dead!" Last night 'twas said throughout the city; Each quidnunc gravely shook his head, And HALF the town cried, "What a pity!"

The news proved false--'t was all a cheat-- The morning came the fact denying; And ALL the town to-day repeat What HALF the town last night was crying.

A NICE POINT.

Say which enjoys the greater blisses, John, who Dorinda's picture kisses, Or Tom, his friend, the favor'd elf, Who kisses fair Dorinda's self? Faith, 'tis not easy to divine, While both are thus with raptures fainting, To which the balance should incline, Since Tom and John both kiss a painting. THE POINT DECIDED.

Nay, surely John's the happier of the twain, Because--the picture can not kiss again!

TRUE NOBILITY.

Young Stirps as any lord is proud, Vain, haughty, insolent, and loud, Games, drinks, and in the full career Of vice, may vie with any peer; Seduces daughters, wives, and mothers, Spends his own cash, and that of others, Pays like a lord--that is to say, He never condescends to pay, But bangs his creditor in requital-- And yet this blockhead wants a title!

TO A LIAR.

Lie as long as you will, my fine fellow, believe me, Your rhodomontading will never deceive me; Though you took me in THEN, I confess, my good youth, When moved by caprice you once told me the truth.

MENDAX.

See yonder goes old Mendax, telling lies To that good easy man with whom he's walking; How know I that? you ask, with some surprise; Why, don't you see, my friend, the fellow's talking.

THE BAD-WIFE.

SAVANS have decided, that search the globe round, One only bad wife in the world can be found; The worst of it is, as her name is not known, Not a husband but swears that bad wife is his own.

THE DEAD MISER.

From the grave where dead Gripeall, the miser, reposes, What a villainous odor invades all our noses! It can't be his BODY alone--in the hole They have certainly buried the usurer's SOUL.

ON FELL.

While Fell was reposing himself on the hay, A reptile conceal'd bit his leg as he lay; But all venom himself, of the wound he made light, And got well, while the scorpion died of the bite.

THE BAD ORATOR.

So vile your grimace, and so croaking your speech, One scarcely can tell if you're laughing or crying; Were you fix'd on one's funeral sermon to preach, The bare apprehension would keep one from dying.

THE WISE CHILD.

How plain your little darling says "Mamma," But still she calls you "Doctor," not "Papa." One thing is clear: your conscientious rib Has not yet taught the pretty dear to fib.

SPECIMEN OF THE LACONIC.

"Be less prolix," says Grill. I like advice-- "Grill, you're an ass!" Now surely that's concise.

CUPID AND MERCURY, OR THE BARGAIN.

Sly Cupid late with Maia's son Agreed to live as friend and brother; In proof, his bow and shafts the one Chang'd for the well-fill'd purse of t'other. And now, the transfer duly made, Together through the world they rove; The thieving god in arms array'd, And gold the panoply of love!

FRITZ.

Quoth gallant Fritz, "I ran away To fight again another day." The meaning of his speech is plain, He only fled to fly again.

ON DORILIS.