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O WOULD the Baptist come again
And preach aloud with might and main
OCCASIONED BY THE FORMER. I
HOLD of all our viperous race
The greedy creeping things in place
ON A READER OF HIS OWN VERSES. HOARSE MÆVIUS reads his hobbling verse
To all and at all times,
* Annual Anthology, Vol. 11. Bristol, 1800.
And deems them both divinely smooth,
His voice as well as rhymes.
But folks say, Mævius is no ass !
But Mævius makes it clear That he's a monster of an ass,
An ass without an ear.
Lie on--'tis your duty, sweet youth !
When you cunningly tell us the truth.
ACK drinks fine wines, wears modish clothing,
But prithee where lies Jack's estate? In Algebra, for there I found of late A quantity call'd less than nothing.
S Dick and I at Charing Cross were walking
Whom should we see on t’other side pass by But Informator with a stranger talking,
So I exclaim'd, “ Lord what a lie !" Quoth Dick—“What, can you hear him?”
“ Hear him! stuff! I saw him open his mouth-an't that enough ?”
* Morning Post, Nov. 16, 1799.
TO A PROUD PARENT. THY babes ne'er greet thee with the father's
name ; My Lud !' they lisp. Now whence can this
arise ? Perhaps their mother feels an honest shame
And will not teach her infant to tell lies.
HIPPONA lets no silly flush
Disturb her cheek, nought makes her blush. Whate'er obscenities you say She nods and titters frank and gay. Oh Shame awake one honest flush For this,-that nothing makes her blush.
THY lap-dog, Rufa, is a dainty beast,
It don't surprise me in the least
EM writes his verses with more speed
Than the printer's boy can set 'em ;
* Morning Post, Sept. 23, 1799.
DORIS can find no taste in tea,
Green to her drinks like Bohea; Because she makes the tea so small She never tastes the tea at all.
WHAT? rise again with all one's bones?
Quoth Giles, I hope you fib? I trusted when I went to Heaven
To go without my rib.
ON A BAD SINGER.
SWANS sing before they die—'twere no bad
thing Should certain persons die before they sing.
OCCASIONED BY THE LAST.
Post obitum can no man sing.
ON A MODERN DRAMATIST.
NOT for the Stage his plays are fit,
But suit the closet, said a wit.
* Morning Post, Nov. 14, 1799.
The closet ? said his friend, I ween
XVI. To be ruled like a Frenchman the Briton is loth
Yet in truth a direct-tory governs them both. 1798.
Had Eve been such a woman !
And she had tempted no man.
There comes from old Avaro's grave
A deadly stench—why, sure they have Immured his soul within his grave ?
L ast Monday all the papers said
That Mr. was dead;
“Pity, indeed, 'tis pity !”
Why, then, what said the city ?
“Pity, indeed, 'tis pity!"*
* The Keepsake, 1829.