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Ingruit imber trux
Jam sub tecto pellitur Is quem crastina lux
Referet hùc fideliter.
Semel tantum dic
Ne recuses sic,
'Tis just beginning to rain,
So I'll get under cover ;
And be your constant lover.
Don't say nay,
TO THE HOT WELLS OF CLIFTON.
IN PRAISE OF RUM-PUNCH.
A Triglot Ode, viz.
CHATTERTON. Πηγη Βριστολιας O fons Bristolii I ken your worth, Μαλλον εν υαλω Hoc magis in vitro “ Hot wells" of Bristol Λαμπουσ' ανθεσι συν Dulci digne mero
That bubble forth Νεκταρος αξιη
Non sine floribus As clear as crystal ;.. Σ' αντλω
En parlour snug Ρευματι πολλα
JE'D wish no hotter Μίσγων
To mir a sug Και μελιτος πολυ. . Caloribus.
Of Rum and water. Ανηρ καν τις εραν
Si quis vel venerem Doth Love, young chiel, βουλεται η μαχη'
Aut prælia cogitat, One's bogom rutie?
Ripe for a scute ?
Rubro sanguine The simplest plan Θ' αιματι νάμα Rivos,
Is just to take a Προθυμος τε
duell stiffened can Ταχ' εσσεται.
Of old Jamaica. Σε φλεγμ' αιθαλοεν Te flagrante bibax Bencath the zone Σειριου αστερος
Grog in a pail or Αρμοζει πλωτορί: : Sugit navita : tu Rum-best alone, Συ κρυος ηδυν εν Frigus amabile Delights the sailor. Νησοις
The can he swills Αντιλεσαισι
Alone gives vigour Ποιεις
In the Antilles Κ' άιθιοπων φυλφ.
To white or nigger
Κρηναις εν τε καλαις Fies nobilium Thy claims, O fount,
fontium Deserve attention. Σ' εν κοιλη κυλακι Me dicente; cavum Henceforward count Ενθεμενην εως
Dum calicem reples On classic mention. Tuvnow,
Kight pleasant stuff Λαλον εξ ου
Thine to the lip is.... Σον δε ρευμα καθαλλεται. Lymphe
die 've had enough Desiliunt tuæ.
TO THE HARD-HEARTED MOLLY
CAREW, THE LAMENT OF HER
AD MOLLISSIMAM PUELLAM E GE
TICÀ CARUARUM FAMILIA OVI.
Oh! what will I do? Sure my love is all crost, Like a bud in the frost.
And there's no use at all In my going to bed ; For 'tis dhrames, and not sleep, That comes into my head ..
And 'tis all about you, My sweet Molly Carew, And indeed 'tis a sin And a shame.
You're complater than nature
Och hone, wierasthrew !
But why should I speak
Heu! heu !
Me tædet, me piget o ! Cor mihi riget o ! Ut flos sub frigido ...
Et nox ipsa mî tum Cuin vado dormitùm. Infausta, insomnis, Transcurritur omnis ..
Hoc culpâ fit tua Mî, mollis Carùa, Sic mihi illudens, Nec pudens.
Prodigium tu, re Es, verâ, naturæ, Candidior lacte ;Plus fronte cum hâc te, Cum istis ocellis, Plus omnibus stellis Mehercule vellem. Sed heu, me imbellem ! A me, qui sum fidus, Vel ultimum sidus Non distat te magis ... Quid agis !
Heu! heu ! nisi tu
Prætereo pontem ? ..,
Ast hic ego minùs Quàm ipse LONGINUS In verbis exprimem Hunc nasum sublimem...
De floridå genâ
Tum, tibi puella !
Heu! heu! nisi tu
Paddy Blake the schoolmaster
To put it in rhyme ?Though there's one Burke,
Who would call it Snublime ...
And then for your cheek,
Then your lips, O machree!
Och hone, wierasthrew !
By the man in the moon !
For you dance twice as ligh
Though the piper I bate,
And when you're at Mass
am, Molly Carew;
Heu ! heu!
Per cornua hunæ
I nunc choro salta
A te in sacello
Och hone! like an owl,
Heu! heu! nisi tu
Don't provoke me to do it :
And you'd look very queer,
Throth you'd open your eyes,
And faith! Katty Naile
Och hone! and when I
Non me provocato,
Et stuperes planè,
Quid diceres, si cum
Et pol! Catharina
Tum posthac diù
THE PAINTER, BARRY.
“ Rome, 1769. "Nothing could have made me more really happy than your very kind letter. It came most opportunely to support my spirits at a time when I was ill of a fever, which I believe was occasioned by a cold caught while working in the Vatican.”
James Barry (R.A.) to (Sir) Joshua Reynolds. “ Apparet domus intus et atria longa patescunt,
Apparent Priami et veterum penetralia regum.”— Æneid II.
The historian on whom will devolve the task of tracing, “à la Gibbon," the decline and fall of English literature, must devote an ample chapter to writers of romance. This class has obtained an undue predominance. A motley ano undisciplined horde, emerging from their native haunts on the remote boundary of the literary domain, have rushed down with a simultaneous war-whoop on the empire of learning, and threaten not to leave a vestige of sober knowledge or classic taste throughout the range of their Vandal incursions ; no memorable transaction of bygone centuries is held sacred from the rude inroad and destructive battle-axe of the “HISTORICAL" novelist. The ghost of Froissart revisits nightly the glimpses of the moon to complain of those who molest and torture his simple spirit; Rapin, Matthew Paris, Hollinshed, De Thou, Hume, Clarendon, and Robertson, undergo a post mortem persecution, which those chroniclers scarce anticipated as the fruit of their learned labours. The sisterhood of the sacred valley have taken the affair sadly to heart; and each Muse in her turn sheds a tear of condolence over the disfigured page of Clio.
Nor has individual biography been exempt from devastation. Richelieu, Cromwell, Will. Wallace, Henri Quatre, Cardinal Borromeo, Queen Elizabeth, Brinsley Sheridan, and a host of victims, have been immolated with barbarous rites on the shrine of Colburn and Bentley: After disinterring by dozens the memorable dead who fain would sleep in Westminster Abbey, these goules have traversed the continent, with vampire voracity, in quest of prey ; few are the characters of European celebrity that have not fed their indiscriminate insatiate maw. Nay, as if modern history did not afford scope for the exercise of their propensities, they have invaded the privacy of Roman life, to insult the “lares," to desecrate the household gods of ancient Italy; and in the Last Days of Pompeii, an attempt is made to impute modern foppery, with all its concomitant peculiarities, to the masters of the world.
“Et, sous des noms Romains, faisant notre portrait-
BOILEAU, A. P. chant iii.