"Ab, honey, true!" the fprite refum'd,
"Therefore I laive the dead;
And that I mayn't to H- be doom'd,
I'm looking for my head!"

THE WAY TO BE WISE.

POOR Jenny, am'rous, young, and gay,
Having by man been led aftray,

To nunn'ry dark retir'd:
There liv'd, and look'd fo like a maid
So feldom ate, so often pray'd,
She was by all admir'd.

The Lady Abbefs oft would cry,
If any fifter trod awry,

Or prov❜d an idle flattern;
"See wife and pious Mrs. Jane;
A life fo ftrict, fo grave a mien,
Is fure a worthy pattern."
A pert young flut at length replies,
Experience, Madam, makes fools wife;
'Tis that has made her fuch:

And we, poor fouls, no doubt should be
As pious and as wife as fhe,

If we had known as much."

A

THE LETTER-CARRIER.

WAG at the gallows, who relish'd a jest,
With a rifible phiz, thus the hangman addrefs'ds

"Well, Jack, I am going to vifit that place

Where your father is gone, and the rest of your race;
'Tis a chance but I fee him-and you, my good friend,
May by me your refpects to your family fend."
Ketch gravely replied, as he faften'd the twine,
"I'll beg leave to trouble you, Sir, with a line!"
Lerves.

JAEK

JACK KETCH AND THE FRENCHMAN.
A JEU D'ESPRIT.-BY AMBROSE PITMAN, ESQ
[From the Morning Poft.]

A FRENCHMAN once, at fome affizes,
'T was Nottingham, the Mufe furmifes,
Fell justly by the course of law,
A victim for-un grand faux pas.
When he approach'd the fatal tree,
(Un autre Place de Greve pour lui,)
And when Jack Ketch prepar'd to tie
The noose that did exalt him high,
Inftead of praying to the Lord,

Monfieur exclaim'd, "Ah! mifericorde !"
"Measure the cord?" replied Jack Ketch;
"Measure the cord yourself, you wretch !"~
Still mifericorde was all his cry;

"Ah! mifericorde! dat I fhould die!
Ah! mifericorde! good folk, good by !"
"Meafure the cord! you fniv'ling our!"
Rejoin'd the executioner:

"T is long enough-I know 't will do
To hang a score fuch rogues as you;
And fince you 've been a thieving elf,
Meafure the cord, I say, yourself."

ON OPERAS.

AN Opera, like a pill'ry, may be faid
To nail the ears down, but expofe the head!

QUAVER.

ENVY AND IMPOTENCE.

}

A

GAINST me letters Vindex writes, 't is faid:
That is not publish'd, which is never read.

BON

SIR

BON TON.

Plus fellis, quam mellis habet.-MART.

IR Hal and Lady Sneer were heard
Difputing which had most regard:
Says Madam, "When I die, my love,
Your guardian Angel I will prove,
And hover round you night and day,
Left you, my heart, fhould go aftray!"
"And I fhall be fo bleft, my dear,"
Cried Spouse," beneath your phantom-care,
That Speedy as you pleafe, my love,
You may my guardian Angel prove."

PUNCTUM SALIENS..

EPITAPH.

ERE lies the Devil-ask no other name.
Well-but you mean Lord

HE

fame.

? Hufh! we mean the

PARAPHRASE OF AN EPIGRAM FROM:

MARTIAL..

"Omnia, Caftor, emis-fic fiet, ut omnia vendas."
[From the General Evening Poft.]

WITH careless Tom a weighty purse

Is often found a heavy curfe;

He neither refts by day nor night,
Till he's contriv'd to make it light,
By purchafing an hundred things,

Canes, nicknacks, baubles, watches, rings..
His purfe run out to raise fome cash,
'Tom inftant fells his tinfel-trash-
At fuch a lofs, that the poor ninny
Scarce gets three fhillings in the guinea:
Yet fuch his rage to buy, we're told,
Th' amount for which his baubles fold,
He laid out, ere he reach'd his home,
On trifles at an auction-room:

Thus

Thus Tom, to buy and fell, went on,
Till guineas-fhillings-all were gone!

SONNET

●N THE DEATH OF MR. WARTON, SENT TO THE REV DR. WARTON BY A FRIEND.

SAY, fhall thy Mufe o'er the fallen hero's bier
Th' eternal monument of glory raise,

Swell the loud Pæan of harmonious praise,
And high Ambition's banner'd trophies rear,
While filent flows the tributary tear

Which to her fav'rite fon fhe forrowing pays, Unftrung her useless lyre, and mute her lays ?But, hark! a ftrain divine now ftrikes mine ear: The facred bard his independent fame

Shall from his own immortal verse receive!
Soon dies the warrior's and the statesman's name,
His aid if no recording poet give;

But wreaths of endless bloom fhall Warton claim,
While wit, while learning, and while fancy live!

CRANIOGNOMY..

DIALOGUE ILLUSTRATIVE, BY LUCIAN, JUN.
[From the European Magazine.]

BOOKSELLER defcends by a Flight of Stairs, and
Speaks to the SHOPMAN.
Bookfeller.

WHAT the devil has been the matter? There was

fuch a noise below stairs, while I was at breakfaft, that I found it impoffible to get through the firft page of Dick Dry's laft political pamphlet. Hey-day! how came the upper tier of vols thrown from the fhelves, and the lower rows in such confufion? Have we had the Stockwell Ghost here? Or have the French and English authors declared war against each other? If fo, in fpite of the Definitive, we shall have another battle of the books.

Shopman

Shopman. The carpenters, Sir, repairing the next houfe, have shook them down. I am fure that ponderous Locke on Human Understanding has almost cracked my skull.

Books. Then yours is not an Egyptian cranium, as my worthy friend the Magiftrate obferves. Mercy on us! What a noise these fellows make! What a duft they raife! One ought to have the eyes of little Eagle, the great Critic, to be able to tell one author

from another.

Shopm. They have fo totally difplaced the books, that Homer now lies under Virgil.

Bookf. Gad, that's the fituation in which fome of the Commentators feem to have wifhed to place him! What are thofe vols at bottom? I fuppofe treatises on

the Bathos.

Shopm. No, Sir! They are Defcartes and Gaffendi.

Book. This is like Topfy-turvy, the poem that came out yesterday. I thought they would have mounted to their kindred ftars. Why, you blockhead, you are mingling Novels and Sermons, Pious Tracts. and Plays, Politics and Philofophy, Morality and Medicine, together, like the contents of a Magazine.

Shopm. Thefe folia vols of controverfy have fo Jacerated the Practice of Piety and Whole Duty of. Man, that they will want binding.

Books. So they will, as furely as if they had taken the pills of Dr. Laxative. Send to the fellows, and bid them ftop. Put the fhelves in order; lay the papers on the counter. I expect the Loungers directly, Enter an AUTHOR.

Author. Good morning, my little Decimo Sexto: Any news? Blefs me! Why, your fhop's as dufty as the Knightsbridge road in fummer. I fee every author in it through the medium of a fog.

Bookf: That's because you are a great Critic. However, my books have been a little deranged this morn

ing.