"Ab, honey, true!" the fprite refum'd, THE WAY TO BE WISE. POOR Jenny, am'rous, young, and gay, To nunn'ry dark retir'd: The Lady Abbefs oft would cry, Or prov❜d an idle flattern; And we, poor fouls, no doubt should be If we had known as much." A THE LETTER-CARRIER. WAG at the gallows, who relish'd a jest, "Well, Jack, I am going to vifit that place Where your father is gone, and the rest of your race; JAEK JACK KETCH AND THE FRENCHMAN. A FRENCHMAN once, at fome affizes, Monfieur exclaim'd, "Ah! mifericorde !" "Ah! mifericorde! dat I fhould die! "T is long enough-I know 't will do ON OPERAS. AN Opera, like a pill'ry, may be faid QUAVER. ENVY AND IMPOTENCE. } A GAINST me letters Vindex writes, 't is faid: BON SIR BON TON. Plus fellis, quam mellis habet.-MART. IR Hal and Lady Sneer were heard PUNCTUM SALIENS.. EPITAPH. ERE lies the Devil-ask no other name. HE fame. ? Hufh! we mean the PARAPHRASE OF AN EPIGRAM FROM: MARTIAL.. "Omnia, Caftor, emis-fic fiet, ut omnia vendas." WITH careless Tom a weighty purse Is often found a heavy curfe; He neither refts by day nor night, Canes, nicknacks, baubles, watches, rings.. Thus Thus Tom, to buy and fell, went on, 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 Swell the loud Pæan of harmonious praise, 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! But wreaths of endless bloom fhall Warton claim, CRANIOGNOMY.. DIALOGUE ILLUSTRATIVE, BY LUCIAN, JUN. BOOKSELLER defcends by a Flight of Stairs, and 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. |