Some broken-down Idols, that long had been plac'd In his father's old Cabinet, pleas'd him so much, That he knelt down and worshipp'd, though-such was his taste! They were monstrous to look at and rotten to touch! And these were the beautiful gods of king Crack! Till his people, disdaining to worship such things, Cried aloud, one and all, "Come, your godships must pack"You will not do for us, though you may do for kings." Then, trampling the gross Idols under their feet, They sent Crack a petition, beginning "Great Cæsar! We are willing to worship; but only entreat That you'll find us some decenter godships than these are." "I'll try," says king Crack-then they furnish'd him models Of better shap'd gods, but he sent them all back; Some were chisell'd too fine, some had heads 'stead of noddles, In short, they were all much too godlike for Crack! So he took to his darling old Idols again, And, just mending their legs and new bronzing their faces, In open defiance of gods and of men, Set the monsters up grinning once more in their places! WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE? Quest. WHY is a pump like V-sc-nt C-stl-r—gh? EPIGRAM. DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CATHOLIC DELEGATE AND HIS R-Y-L SAID his Highness to Ned, with that grim face of his, 'Why refuse us the Veto, dear Catholic Neddy ?""Because, Sir," said Ned, looking full in his phiz, "You're forbidding enough, in all conscience, already!" WREATHS FOR THE MINISTERS. AN ANACREONTIC. HITHER, Flora, queen of flowers! From the King's well-odour'd road, Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud! Brightest herbs and flowers of thine First you must then, willy-nilly, Find me next a poppy posy, Next, our C-stl-r-gh to crown, Wither'd shamrocks, which have been Gilded o'er, to hide the green (Such as H-df-t brought away Stitch the garland through and through The ancients, in like manner, crowned their lares or household gods. (See Juvenal, Sat. ix. v. 138.) Certain tinsel imitations of the shamrock, which are distributed by the servants of Cn House every Patrick's-day. Crimp the leaves, thou first of syrens! That's enough-away, away— EPIGRAM. DIALOGUE BETWEEN A DOWAGER AND HER MAID ON THE NIGHT OF LORD Y-RM-TH'S FETE. "I WANT the Court-Guide" said my lady "to look If the house, Seymour Place, be at 30 or 20❞— "We've lost the Court-Guide, ma'am, but here's the Red Book, Where you'll find, I dare say, Seymour PLACES in plenty!" HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II. FREELY TRANSLATED BY G. R. COME, Y-rm-th, my boy, never trouble your brains, The Emperor Boney, Is doing or brewing on Muscovy's plains; Nor tremble, my lad, at the state of our granaries; Still plenty to cram in You always shall have, my dear lord of the Stannaries! And infirm, and all that, And a wig (I confess it) so clumsily sits, That it frightens the little Loves out of their wits. * Lord Sidmouth. Thy whiskers, too, Y-rm-th!-alas, even they, Too quickly must turn (What a heart-breaking change for thy whiskers!) to Grey. Should avoid, by the bye), How much pleasanter 'tis to sit under the bust Of old Charley, my friend here, and drink like a new one; Grows plenty of monk's-hood in venomous sprigs; Refreshing all noses Shall sweetly exhale from our whiskers and wigs. That down midst the dishes, Unto M-ch-r Sq-e And see if the gentle Marchesa be there? Go-bid her haste hither, And let her bring with her The newest no-popery sermon that's going- HORACE, ODE XXII., LIB. I. FREELY TRANSLATED BY LORD ELD-N. THE man who keeps a conscience pure No want has he of sword or dagger, Though Peers may laugh, and Papists swagger, Whether midst Irish chairmen going, Or through St Giles's alleys dim, For instance, I, one evening late, Singing the praise of Church and State, When lo! an Irish Papist darted Across my path, gaunt, grim, and big— Of Church and State I'll warble still Though ev'n Dick M-rt-n's self should grumble; Sweet Church and State, like Jack and Jill, So lovingly upon a hill Ah! ne'er like Jack and Jill to tumble! EPIGRAM. FROM THE FRENCH. "I NEVER give a kiss (says Prue) To naughty man, for I abhor it." She will not give a kiss. 'tis true; She'll take one though, and thank you for it! ON A SQUINTING POETESS. To no one Muse does she her glance confine, |