WIVES BY THE DOZEN.

O DEATH! how thou spoil'st the best project of life! Said Gabriel, who still, as he buried one wife,

For the sake of her family, married her cousin ; And thus, in an honest collateral line,

He still married on till his number was nine, sorry to die till he made up his dozen.

Full

FATAL LOVE.

POOR Hal caught his death standing under a spout, Expecting till midnight,when Nan would come out, But fatal his patience, as cruel the dame,

And curs'd was the weather that quench'd the man's flame.

Whoe'er thou art, that read'st these moral lines, Make love at home, and go to bed betimes.

A SAILOR'S WIFE.

QUOTH Richard in jest, looking wistly at Nelly, Methinks, child, you seem something round in the

belly!

Nell answer'd him snappishly, How can that be,

When my husband has been more than two years

at sea?

[carried Thy husband! quoth Dick: why, that matter was Most secretly, Nell; I ne'er thought thou wert married.

ON A FART,

LET IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

READER, I was born, and cried;
I crack'd, I smelt, and so I died.
Like Julius Cæsar's was my death,
Who in the senate lost his breath.
Much alike entomb'd does lie
The noble Romulus and I:

And when I died, like Flora fair,
I left the commonwealth my heir.

THE MODERN SAINT.

HER time with equal prudence Silvia shares,
First writes a billet-doux, then says her prayers;
Her mass and toilet; vespers and the play;
Thus God and Ashtaroth divide the day
Constant she keeps her Ember-week and Lent,
At Easter calls all Israel to her tent;

Loose without bawd, and pious without zeal, She still repeats the sins she would conceal. Envy herself from Silvia's life must grant, An artful woman makes a modern saint.

THE PARALLEL.

PROMETHEUS, forming Mr. Day, Carv'd something like a man in clay. The mortal's work might well miscarry ; He, that does heaven and earth control, Alone has power to form a soul, His hand is evident in Harry. Since one is but a moving clod, T'other the lively form of God; Squire Wallis, you will scarce be able To prove all poetry but fable.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHO WAS FOND OF FORTUNE TELLING.

You, madam, may with safety go,
Decrees of destiny to know;

For at your birth kind planets reign'd,

And certain happiness ordain'd:
Such charms as yours are only given

To chosen favourites of heaven.

But, such is my uncertain state,
'Tis dangerous to try my fate;
For I would only know from art
The future motions of your heart,
And what predestinated doom
Attends my love for years to come;
No secrets else, that mortals learn,
My cares deserve, or life concern:
But this will so important be,

I dread to search the dark decree;
For, while the smallest hope remains,
Faint joys are mingled with my pains ;
Vain distant views my fancy please,
And give some intermitting ease:
But should the stars too plainly show
That you have doom'd my endless woe,
No human force, or art, could bear
The torment of my wild despair.

This secret then I dare not know,
And other truths are useless now.
What matters, if unblest in love,
How long or short my life will prove?
To gratify what low desire,

Should I with needless haste inquire,
How great, how wealthy, I shall be ?
Oh! what is wealth or power to me!
If I am happy, or undone,
It must proceed from you

alone.

A GREEK EPIGRAM IMITATED.

WHEN hungry wolves had trespass'd on the fold,
And the robb'd shepherd his sad story told;
"Call in Alcides," said a crafty priest;

“Give him one half, and he'll secure the rest."
No! said the shepherd, if the Fates decree,
By ravaging my flock, to ruin me,
To their commands I willingly resign,
Power is their character, and patience mine;
Though, troth! to me there seems but little odds,
Who prove the greatest robbers, wolves or gods!

TO A FRIEND ON HIS NUPTIALS.

WHEN Jove lay blest in his Alcmæna's charms,
Three nights, in one, he prest her in his arms;
The sun lay set, and conscious nature strove
To shade her god, and to prolong his love.

From that auspicious night Alcides came,
What less could rise from Jove, and such a dame?
May this auspicious night with that compare,
Nor less the joys, nor less the rising heir ;

He strong as Jove, she like Alcmæna fair!