At Bath, where the feeble go more than the stout Over poor Mr. Lightfoot, confined with the gout, Miss Joy, wretched maid, when she chose Mr. Love, She now holds in wedlock, as true as a dove, Mr. Child, in a passion, knock'd down Mr. Rock; Miss Pool used to dance, but she stands like a stock Mr. Swift hobbles onward, no mortal knows how, Mr. Barker's as mute as a fish in the sea, Mr. Ryder performs all his journeys on foot, Mr. Penny, whose father was rolling in wealth, Mr. Cruikshank stept into three thousand a year Now I hope you'll acknowledge I've made it quite clear THE LITERARY LADY. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. Richard Brinsley Sheridan, statesman, wit, and author of The Rivals and The School for Scandal, etc., was born at Dublin in 1751; died, 1816. WHAT motley cares Corilla's mind perplex, Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass, And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid. There new-born plays foretaste the town's applause, A satire next, and then a bill of fare. A scene she now projects, and now a dish ; Here Act the First, and here, Remove with Fish. That soberly casts up a bill for coals; Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks, THE COUNTRY SQUIRE. YRIARTE. Don Tomas Yriarte, an eminent Spanish poet, was born at Teneriffe, 1750. He is chiefly known to English readers by his 'Fabulas Literarias' (Literary Fables) published 1782. These fables have been frequently translated in this country and in America. The latest, and by far the most successful translation, is that by Mr. Robert Rockliff, published in Liverpool, 1854. Mr. Rockliff has caught the happy manner and free versification of his author in no ordinary degree, and his complete collection of Yriarte's Fables is one of the most excellent translations from a foreign language which has appeared of late years. Yriarte died in 1798. A COUNTRY Squire, of greater wealth than wit (For fools are often bless'd with fortune's smile), Had built a splendid house, and furnish'd it In splendid style. 'One thing is wanted,' said a friend; for, though The rooms are fine, the furniture profuse, You lack a library, dear sir, for show, If not for use.' 'Tis true; but, zounds!' replied the squire with glee, 'The lumber-room in yonder northern wing. (I wonder I ne'er thought of it) will be The very thing. 'I'll have it fitted up without delay With shelves and presses of the newest mode And rarest wood, befitting every way A squire's abode. And when the whole is ready, I'll despatch Of books in town.' But ere the library was half supplied The booby Squire repented him, and cried Unto himself: 'This room is much more roomy than I thought; Ten thousand volumes hardly would suffice To fill it, and would cost, however bought, A plaguey price. 'Now, as I only want them for their looks, It might, on second thoughts, be just as good, And cost me next to nothing, if the books Were made of wood. 'It shall be so. I'll give the shaven deal Its nakedness. And gilt and letter'd with the author's name, Shall be, or seem to be ('tis all the same) Assembled there.' The work was done; the simulated hoards Where all were wood. From bulky folios down to slender twelves, With such a stock, which seemingly surpass'd Supremely vain? |