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The deepest damask of the rose.
Now, painter, cease! Thy task is done.
ROM right to left, and to and fro,
Caught in a labyrinth you go,
And turn, and turn, and turn again, To solve the mystery, but in vain ; Stand still, and breathe, and take from me A clue, that soon shall set you free! Not Ariadne, if you meet her, Herself could serve
with a better. You enter'd easily—find whereAnd make with ease your exit there !
NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE
HE lover, in melodious verses,
cry, “ Was ever such a wretch as I?”
Yes! thousands have endured before
O grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
The Snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,
Within that house secure he hides,
Give but his horns the Nightest touch,
Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone,
Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads,
Who seeks him must be worse than blind,
ITH two spurs or one, and no great mat
or a switch,
Young gentlemen, hear !—I am older than you! The advice that I give I have proved to be true, Wherever
your journey may be, never doubt it, The faster you ride, you're the longer about it.
ON THE PICTURE OF A SLEEPING
From the Latin of Vincent Bourn.
WEET babe! whose image here ex
Does thy peaceful Numbers show; Guilt or fear, to break thy rest,
Never did thy spirit know.
Soothing slumbers! soft repose !
Such as mock the painter's skill, Such as innocence bestows,
Harmless infant! lull thee ftill!
C. Whittingham, Tooks Court, Chancery Lane.