THE gdy Flirtilla shew'd her mimic bust,

And ask'd blunt Senso if't were fashion'd just. [you, "Ma'am," he replied, "in this 'tis tnuch like "The face is painted, and that hadly too."

An Expostulation.

The Clown's Reply. GOLDSMITH. OHN Trott was desired by two witty peers To tell them the reason why asses had ears: "An't please you," quoth John, “I'm not "given to letters, [betters: "Nor dare I pretend to know more than my "Howe'er, from this time, I shall ne'er see

" your graces,

[asɛes."

Why seem'd you so deaf to my prayers? Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love But why did you kick me down stairs?

A Parody on "Blest as the immortal Gods is he." By the Honourable HENRY ERSKINE. DRUNK as a dragon sure is he,

The youth that dines and sups with thee; And sees, and hears thee, full of fun, Loudly laugh, and quaintly pun. Twas this first made me love my dose, And rais'd such piniples on my nose; For, while I fill'd to ev'ry toast, My health was gone, my senses lost. I found the claret and champagne Inflame my blood, and mad my brain; The toast fell falt'ring from my tongue, I hardly heard the catch I sung. I felt my gorge and sickness rise; The candles danc'd before my eyes; My sight grew dim, the room turn'd round, I tumbled senseless on the ground!

An Elegy on the Glory of her Sex. By the same.
GOOD people all with one accord,

Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word—
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor-
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways-
Unless when she was sinning.

At church, with silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size;
She never slumber'd in her pew-

But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,

By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her

When she has walk'd before.
But now, her wealth and finery fled,.
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead,
Her last disorder-mortal.

Let us lament in sorrow sore;

For Kent-street well may say,
That, had she liv'd a twelvemonth more,
She had not died to-day.

On a Bee.

"RETTY, little, buzzing thing! Arm'd by nature with a sting; 'y man's oblig'd to thee, tern thou of industry! en the fields rich scents exhale, new beauty decks each vale, y all the shining day ry flow'r thou mak'st thy prey, I sweet honey home dost bring, er of the bloomy spring!

e does never thee molest,

e, that tyrant of our breast: n the birds more happy thou; y the spring to love allow, no tribute has from thee, lem thou of liberty! !chaste, frugal animal, piest, wisest, best of all!

To an unfortunate Beauty.

, lovely maid, with downcast eye, nd cheek with silent sorrow pale, t gives thy heart the lengthen'd sigh, at heaving tells a mournful tale? tears, which thus each other chase, speak a breast o'erwhelm'd with woe; sighs, a storm which wrecks my peace, ich souls like thine should never know. tell me, doth some favour'd youth, o often blest, thy beauties slight; eave those thrones of love and truth; at lip, and bosoin of delight?

Lines sent to Mr. Cosway, while Lady C, Pawlet was sitting to him.

CoSWAY, my Cath'rine sits to you:

And, that the col'ring may be true,
This nosegay on your palate place,
Replete with all the tints that grace

The various beauties of her face.
Her skin the snow-drop's whiteness shows
Her blushing cheek the op'ning rose;
Her eyes the modest violet speak,
Whose silken fringes kiss her cheek.
The spicy pink, in morning dew,
Presents her fragrant lips to view;
The glossy curls that crown her head,
Paint from the gilt cup of the mead.
Long may her image fill my eye,
When these fair emblems fade and die;
Plac'd on my faithful breast, and prove
'Tis Cosway paints the Queen of Love,

though to other nymphs he flies. dfeigns the fond, impassion'd tear, es all the eloquence of sighs it 'treach'rous won thy artless ear: ot those nymphs thy anguish move, whom his heart may seem to pine; heart shall ne'er be blest by love, 1ose guilt can force a pang from thine.

Conscience.

Chartreux wants the warning of a bell 'o call him to the duties of his cell; needs no noise at all t' awaken sin, Alertramb thief his larum has within.

He humbly answer'd, "Yea, Bob:" But since return'd from India's glunder'd land, The purse-proud Rumb-d now, on such command,

Would stoutly answer, "Nay, Bob."

To rob the nation two Contractors come,
One cheats in corn, the other cheats in rum;
The greater rogue 'tis hard to ascertain,
The rogue in spirits, or the rogue in grain.

Verses written by a Gentleman on finding an

TRIE

Urn.

RIPLING mortal, tell me why Thou hast disturb'd my urn; Want'st thou to find out what am I?

Vain man! attend, and learn: To know what letters spelt my name Is useless quite to thee; An heap of dust is all I am,

And all that thou shalt be.
Go now, that heap of dust explore,
Measure its grains, or weigh;
Canst thou the title which I bore
Distinguish in the clay?
What glitt'ring honours, or high trust
Once dignified me here,

Were characters imprest on dust,
Which quickly disappear.

Nor will the sparkling atoms show

A Claudius or a Guelph:

What from envy can be free, If ill-fate could envy thee?

The Negro's Complaint. WIDE over the tremulous sea

The moon spread her mantle of light,
And the gale, gently dying away,
Breath'd soft on the bosom of night.
On the forecastle Maratan stood,

His tears fell unseen in the flood,
And pour'd forth his sorrowful tale;

His sighs pass'd unheard on the gale.
Ah, wretch! in wild anguish he cry'd,
From country and liberty torn;
Ah! Maratan, wouldst thou had died,

Ere o'er the salt waves thou wert borne! Thro' the groves of Angola I stray'd,

Love and hope made my bosom their bos There I talk'd with my favourite maid,

Nor dream'd of the sorrow to cone. From the thicket the man-hunter spring My cries echo'd loud thro' the air: There was fury and wrath on his tone, He was deaf to the shrieks of despair. Accurs'd be the merciless band,

Who his love could trem Maratan tex; And blasted this impotent hand, That was sever'd from all I held dear.

Of nobles, or thyself.

The mould will yield no evidence,
By which thou mayst divine

If lords or beggars issued thence,
And form'd the ancient line.
Learn then the vanity of birth,

Condition, honours, name,
All are but modes of common earth,
The substance just the sanie.
Bid av'rice and ambition view
Th' extent of all their gains;
Themselves, and their possessions too,
A gallon vase contains.

Haste, lift thy thoughts from earthly things
To more substantial bliss;
And leave that grov'ling pride to kings,
Which ends in dirt like this.
Let virtue be thy radiant guide,
Twill dignify thy clay,
And raise thy ashes glorified,
When suns shall fade away.

Upon a Gnat burnt in a Candle.
TRIFLING insect! that art now
But an airy gnat below,
Ah! what folly made thee fly
To the pleasing flame too nigh?
Seeming good, that treach'rous ill
Cheated thine, that cheats man's will.
Simple thing! how shouldst thou fear
What so beauteous scem'd, and fair?
Thus deceitful pleasure's smile
Did thy silly life beguile.

Still let sleep from my eye-lids depart, And still may the arrows of woe

Drink deep of the stream of my heart! But hark! on the silence of night My Adila's accents I hear, And mournful beneath the wan light I see her lov'd image appear! Slow o'er the smooth ocean she glides, As the mist that hangs light on the wa And fondly her lover she chides,

That lingers so long from the grave. "O, Maratan, haste thee!" she cries, "Here the reign of oppression is o'er, "The tyrant is rebb'd of his prize,

"And Adila sorrows no more." Now, sinking amidst the dim ray, Her form seems to fade on my view; "O stay thee, my Adila, stay-” She beckons, and I must pursue. To-morrow, the white man in vain Shall proudly account me his slave; My shackles I plunge in the main,

And rush to the realms of the brave.

Elegy to the Memory of Miss Louisa HennTHOU, to whom fair Genius homage f Whom Science courted, and the A lov'd;

Whose mind the hand of Innocence arrav4.

Pure as that form which Envy's stif app.tv

n an unfortunate Beauty. ANON. wand'rer! how shall that weak form, loosely clad in vesture light, e the malice of the storm), rudeness of the winter's night? oes a smile thy cheek illume? 3! that faint and feeble glow the flow'r's untimely bloom, oping amidst a waste of snow. vretch! you sigh, you would unfold course of sorrow you have run: ple story, quickly told,ilov'd, believ'd, and were undone. weep you as my hand you press? y on my features gaze and sigh? Ino one pity your distress? e listen to your tale, but 1? a pittance scant, I fear,

the joy I can bestow; but wipe away one tear, moment from a life of woe. en for this your grateful eye heaven is rais'd-Poor girl, adicu! nes of senseless mirth Ifly, overty and sickness you.

By Dr. YOUNG.

smooth oil the razor best is whet, wit 13 by politeness sherpest set;

Advice to Mr. Pope, on his intended Translation of Homer, 1714.

turn,

THOU who, with a happy genius born, Canst tuneful verse in Rowing numbers [bays, Crown'd on thy Windsor's plains with early Be early wise, nor trust to barren praise. Blind was the bard that sung Achilles' rage, He sung, and begg'd, and curs'd th' ungiving age: If Britain his translated song would hear, First take the gold-then charm the list'ning

ear;

So shall thy father Homer smile to see

His pension paid, tho' late-and paid to thee.

Under the Print of Tom Britton, the Musical Small-coal Man. HUGHES.

mean thy rank, yet in thy humble cell Did gentle peace and arts, unpurchas'd dwell:

THO

Tu inspiring muses, and the god of love,

Which most should grace the fair Melinda

strove.

Love arm'd her with his bow and keenest darts,
The muses more enrich'd her mind with arts.
Tho' Greece in shining temples heretofore
Did Venus' and Minerva's pow'rs adore,
The ancients thought no single goddess fit
To reign at once o'er beauty and o'er wit;
Each was a sep'rate claim; till now we find
The different titles in Melinda join'd.