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And I that maxim to a tittle
Pursue, some think too far a little ;
More prone to quit the ground I've got,
Than claim a rank I merit not;
Conscious how scanty, at the most,
Is all Truth can, or Sense would boast.

Witches, 'tis said, on Lapland's coast,
Astride their broomsticks travel post:
So when the Muse is pleased to back
My wooden genius for a hack,
Away she scampers, like a witch,
Through thick and thin, cross hedge and ditch;
As if resolved, before we part,
To break her own neck or my heart.

Broomsticks on no punctilios stand,
Ready alike for every hand:
So I my skill and powers would suit
(Powers how confined ! skill how minute!)
To any need, at any call!
Be useful—or not be at all.

One semblance more of me (God knows)
The broomstick too exactly shows;
By bands—long ! long! perhaps to last!-
'Tis like myself, to birch bound fast * !
And shall things ever thus remain ?-
'Tis fair to hope, though not complain.
I bear, meanwhile, what must be borne:
And when to a mere stump I'm worn,
Let this eulogium on my tomb stick,


* Mr. Bishop was master of Merchant Tailor's school.


LET Alexander's discontented soul
Sigh for another world's increased control!
Ill weaved Ambition has no charm for me,
Nor, sordid Avarice, am I slave to thee.

I only ask twelve thousand pounds a year,
And Curwen's countryhouse on Windermere-
A beauteous wife, and sensible as fair,
And many a friend, and not a single care.

I am no glutton—no! I never wish
A sturgeon floating in a golden dish-
At the Piazza satisfied to pay
Three guineas for my dinner every day.
What though shrewd Erskine at the bar we

As famed as Crassus and as wealthy too;
I only ask the eloquence of Fox,
To jump like Ireland, and like Belcher box,
To act as Garrick did—or any how
Unlike our heroes of the buskin now;
To range, like Garnerin, through fields of air,
To win, like V-8, England's richest fair-
I only ask, these blessings to enjoy,
And every varied talent well employ,
Thy life, Methuselah! or, if not thine,
An immortality of love and wine.





O YEZ! This is, that all may learn,
Whom it may happen to concern,
To any lady, not a wife,
Upon a lease, to last for life,
By auction will be let this day,
And enter'd on some time in May,
A vacant heart; not ornamented
On plans by Chesterfield invented ;
A plain, old fashion'd habitation,
Substantial, without decoration,
Large, and with room for friends to spare;
Well situate, and in good repair.

Also the furniture; as sighs,
Hopes, fears, oaths, prayers, and some few—lies;
Odes, sonnets, elegies, and songs,
With all that to the above belongs.

Also,--what some might have been glad,
Though in a separate lot, to have had,-
A good rich soil of hopeful nature,
Six measured acres (feet) in stature.

Likewise, another lot—a heap
Of tatter'd modesty, quite cheap.
This with the rest would have been sold,
But that by several we were told,
If put up with the heart, the price
Of that it much might prejudice.

Note well; the estate, if managed ably,
May be improved considerably:

Love is our money, to be paid
Whenever entry shall be made;
And therefore have we fix'd the day
For entering in the month of May.
But if the buyer of the above
Can on the spot pay ready love,
Hereby the owner makes profession
She instantly shall have possession.
The highest bidder be the buyer,
You may know further of the Crier.





St. Paul's proclaims the solemn midnight hour,

The weary cit slow turns the master key; Time-stinted prentices up Ludgate scour,

And leave the streets to darkness and to me. Now glimmering lamps afford a

ray, And scarce a sound disturbs the night's dull ear; Save where some rambling hack directs its way,

Or frequent tinklings rouse the tavern bar. Save that in yonder iron-grated tower

The watchmen to the constable complain Of such as, in defiance to their power,

Molest their ancient solitary reign. Beneath those butchers' stalls, that penthouse shed,

re rankling offals fret in many a heap, Each in his several sty of garbage laid,

The dexterous sons of Buckhorse soundly sleep.

The cheerful call of Chair, your honour, chair!' Rakes drunk and roaring from the Bedford

Head, The tongues of coachmen squabbling for a fare,

No more can rouse them from their lowly bed. For them the blazing links no longer burn,

Or busy bunters ply their evening care; No setters watch the muddled cit's return, "In hopes some pittance of the prey to share,

Oft to their subtilty the fob did yield,

Their cunning oft the pocket string hath broke! How in dark alleys bludgeons would they wield! How bow'd the wretch beneath their sturdy


Let not Ambition mock their humble toil,

Their vulgar crimes and villany obscure; Nor rich rogues hear with a disdainful smile,

The low and petty knaveries of the poor, The titled villain, and the thief of power,

The greatest rogue that ever bore, a name Awaits alike the inevitable hour,

The paths of wickedness but lead to shame. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If justice round their necks the halter fix, If from the gallows to their kindred vault

They ride not pompous in a coach and six. Gives not the lordly axe as sure a fate?

Are peers exempt from mouldering into dust? Can all the gilded scutcheons of the great

Stamp on polluted deeds the name of just?

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