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By madam served, with body bended,
With knife and fork, and arms extended,
He reached as far as he was able,
To plate that overhung the table;
With little morsels cheats his chops,
And in the passage some he drops.
To show where most his heart inclined,
He talked and drank to John behind.
When drank to in a modish way,
"Your love's sufficient, zur” he'd say ;
And, to be thought a man of manners.
Still rose to make his awkward honors.
“Pish !” says the squire, “pray keep your sitting.”
“No, no,'' he cries “zur, 'tis not fitting;
“Though I'm no scholar versed in letters,
I knows my duty to my betters.”
Much mirth the farmer's ways afford,
And hearty laughs went round the board.
Thus the first course was ended well,
But at the next,-Ah! what befel?
The dishes were now timely placed,
And table with fresh lux'ry graced ;
When drank to by a neighboring charmer,
Up, as usual, stands the farmer ;
A wag, to carry on the joke,
Thus to his servant softly spoke :
“Come hither, Dick, step gentle there,
“And pull away the farmer's chair."
”Tis done, his congee made, the clown
Draws back, and stoops to sit him down;
But from his balance overweigh’d,
And of his trusty seat betray'd
As men at twigs, in rivers sprawling,
He caught the cloth to save his falling ;
In vain, sad fortune, down he wallowed,
And rattling all the dishes followed.
The fops, they lost their little wits,
The ladies squall’d, some fell in fits;
Here tumbled turkeys, tarts, and widgeons,
And there minced pies, and geese, and pigeons,
A pear pie on his belly drops,
A custard pudding met his chops.
Lord! what ado 'twixt belles and beaux,
Some curse, some cry, and rub there clothes :
This lady raves, and that looks down
And weeps, and wails her spatter'd gown ;
One spark bemoans his spatter'd waistcoat,
One, “Rot him, he has spoile'd my laced coat !"
Amidst the rout, the farmer long
The pudding suck'd and held his tongue ;
At length he gets him on his breech,
And scrambles up to make his speech ;
First rubs his eyes and mouth, his nostrils twangs,

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Then snaps his fingers and harangues : “Plague tak't, I'ze tell you how'd 'twould be ; “Look here's a pickle, zurs, d’ye zee ; “And some, l’ze warrant, that make this chatter, "Have clothes bedaub'd with grease or butter, “That cost-" He had gone on, but here Was stopp'd at once in his career ; “Peace, brute, begone !” the ladies cry: The beaux exclaim, "Fly, rascal, fly!" “I'll tear his eyes out !” squeaks Miss Dolly ; “I'll pink his soul out!" roars a bully. At this the farmer shrinks with fear, And thinking 'twas ill tarrying here, Shabs off, and cries, “Aye, kill me, then, “When'er you catch me here again.” So home he jogs, and leaves the 'squire To cool the sparks and ladies' fire. Thus ends my tale ; and now I'll try, Like prior, something to apply.

This may teach rulers of the nation,
Ne'er to place men above their station
And this may show the wanton wit,
That, while he bites, he may be bit.

X-HOPE AND FEAR.

Two pilgrims, Hope and Fear, agreed,

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To Pleasure's altar they'd proceed,

And sacrifice together;
Fair Hope was young, but Fear was old,
And droop'd with heat, and shrunk with cold,

While Hope still praised the weather.
Quoth Fear, "I guess ere long, 'twill rain !"
"And then," said Hope, ''twill clear again."

“Yon rock, so steep and frightful, “To climb,” said Fear, “’twere vain to try !"' “Oh, yes, we will ;” was Hope's reply;

“The view must be delightful!"

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“I'm sure,” said Fear, “we've miss'd the way, “And ne'er shall reach the shrine to-day ;

“My strength, my spirits falter."
“On, on !” said Hope, “I know we're right !”
And oft mistook the northern light

For lamps on Pleasure's altar.
At length they reach'd the blooming fane,
In spite of danger, toil, and pain,

Rough ways, and stormy weather;
When, lo ! from Pleasure's torch there came
A flash of roseate fire, whose flame

Kill’d Hope and Fear together.

Hope, while she lived, was well beloved ;
Yet when she died, no soul was moved

To feel one hour's depression ;
All thought her place so well supplied
By mild Content's celestial bride,

Whom mortals call Possession !

XI.--THE LEAN COMEDIAN.

WHENE'ER the sea surrounds a bit of dry land

Geographers have named the spot an island ; Land, fenced by water, ev'rybody knows, Is guarded well ; this truth annoys our foes ; Who, of invasion were they undertakers, Might chance to knock their heads against our breakers. We'll wave that subject till they try us, And when they do, full dearly shall they buy us.

My story on an island though I've cast,

The place to which the subject of it turns ye, Is not this island, by no isle surpass’d,

But one much smaller, which is christen'd Guernsey ; Yet, like its larger neighbors, it has towns, Roads, rivers, hills, and dales, and ups and downs, Outs, inns, parks, palaces, and many a steeple, And a gay play-house, too, for stage-struck people ; A theatre, well managed, there's no hurt in, So, with your leave, we'll peep behind the curtain.

The manager was one of those sharp elves,
Who serve at once the public and themselves;
Each rarity he thought would please the town,
Was instantly per boat and stage sent down ;
And thus, by turns, his audience receives,
Young Roscii, Mother Goose, and Forty Thieves,
Bannister's Budget, Incledon's sweet notes,
Braham and Catalani's warbling throats.

Among those candidates without a name
Who rather work for bread than play for fame;
Among the list who managers implore
For meat, drink, washing, lodging, and no more,
Came on “so wither’d, wild in his attire,”
So woe-begone a youth did ne'er aspire
With concord of sweet sounds the heart to reach,
Or cleave the general ear with horrid speech !
Well might an audience pity his presumption !

Ne'er was a child of hungry famine seen
So very pale, so wan, so tall, so lean ;
Not like a rushlight, because that

Can’t live without some particle of fat,
But like a skeleton in a consumption.

Now it so happen'd, on that very day,
That “Romeo and Juliet'' was the play:
The corps theatric were but very few;
Each had his part assign'd, and some had two ;
One yet remain’d, a little one, indeed,

But to the author's plot, essential very;
Therefore our hero was engaged and fee'd

To act the starved apothecary.
Had Shakespeare lived he would have died with pleasure
To see how well. his pen had taken measure
Of him whose voice and figure did so strike,
So wonderfully he bewitch'd alike
Lords, ladies, peasants, milkmaids, tars, and doxies;

That had not the apothecary play'd,

The manager had only made
“A beggerly account of empty boxes.''

Thus often are the public led on,
By whim, caprice, stage artifice and trick,
“As if increase of appetite grew thick

“By what it feed on."
And soon this lucky elf,
Cramming the theatre, so cramm'd himself,
That when good nutriment had plump'd his skin,
Growing to fat, the company grew thin;
Till out of size, the manager's discharge
Left him, in truth, a gentleman at large.

XII.-MISCONCEPTION.

ERE night her sable curtain spread,

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, With fear o'erwhelm'd the victim stands,
Ere Phæbus had retired to bed Anticipates the dread commands
In Thetis's lap;

From the elbow chair,
Ere drowsy watchman yet had early ta'en Where Justice sits in solemn state,
Their drowsy nap,

And frowns-Beware!"
A wight, by hunger fierce made bold, “Rogue! what excuse hast thou for this,
To farmer Fitz Maurice's fold,

“Since to old Gilbert Fitz Maurice, Did slyly creep,

“Thou knewest, full well, Where num’rous flocks were quiet laid, “The sheep within that fold belong'd? In the arms of sleep.

Come, quickly tell. No doubt, the sheep he meant to steal, “Confess thy crime; 'twill nought avail But, hapless ! close behind his heel, “To say the mark above the tail Was ploughman Joe,

“Thou aid'st not heed ; Who just arrived in time to stop “For G. F. M. in letters large, The wond'rous blow.

Thou mightest read.

May ill luck on ill actions wait!
The felon must to Justice straight

Be dragg'd by force;
Where prosecutions urge his guilt

Without remorse.

“ 'Tis true, I did," the thief replies,
“But man is not at all times wise,

"As I'm a glutton,
“I clearly thought that G. F. M.

“Meant Good Fat Mutton,

XIII.-THE BEST OF WIVES.

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MAN had once a vicious wife, “Or Nature may assert his reign,

(A most uncommon thing in life) My arms assist, my will restrain, His days and nights were spent in strife And, swimming, I once more regain Unceasing

My troubles." Her tongue went glibly all day long. With eager haste the dame complies, Sweet contradiction still her song, While joy stands glistening in her eyes, And all the poor man did was wrong, Already in her thoughts he dies And ill done.

Before her.

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A truce without doors or within, “Yet when I view the rolling tide,
From speeches long as statesmen spin Nature revolts,” he said ; “beside,
Or rest from her eternal din

I would not be a suicide,
He found not.

And die thus :
He ev'ry soothing art display'd, “It would be better far, I think,
Tried of what stuff her skin was made ; While close I stand upon the brink,
Failing in all, to Heav'n he pray’d; You push me in—nay, never shrink,
To take her.

But do it! Once walking by a river's side, To give the blow the more effect, In mournful terms, “My dear,” he cried, Some twenty yards she ran direct, "No more let feuds our peace divide; And did what she could least expect, I'll end them.

She should do : “Weary of life, and quite resign’d, He slips aside himself to save ; To drown I have made up my mind, So souse she dashes in the

wave, So tie my hands as fast behind

And gave what ne'er before she gaveAs can be ;

Much pleasure. “Dear husband, help! I sink !” she cried. Thou best of wives !"' the man replied, “I would—but you my hands have tied :

Lord help ye !"

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XIV. EPILOGUE TO THE “ANDRIA” OF TERENCE.

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UT whyact plays?”—some formal greybeard cries;

I'li answer that, who am not over wise :
To learn their lessons, and to play the fool,
Are the two great concerns of boys at school ;
And our good masters, prudently discerning,
How much we lean to folly, more than learning,
Contriv'd these plays, by which the variest dunce
May learn his book, and play the fool, at once.
For Greek and Latin we have small devotion,
Terence himself goes down a sickly potion ;
But set us once to act him, never fear us;
Our qualms are gone, 'tis you are sick who hear us.
Ne'er may our actors when they quit the school,
Tread the great stage of life to play the fool.
No partial friends can there our faults conceal,
Should we play characters we cannot feel.

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