THE BAFFLED KNIGHT, OR LADY'S POLICY [A VERY FAVORITE ANCIENT BALLAD.] PERCY RELIQUES

There was a knight was drunk with wine, A riding along the way, sir; And there he met with a lady fine, Among the cocks of hay, sir.

Shall you and I, O lady faire, Among the grass lye down-a: And I will have a special care, Of rumpling of your gowne-a.

Upon the grass there is a dewe, Will spoil my damask gowne, sir: My gowne and kirtle they are newe, And cost me many a crowne, sir.

I have a cloak of scarlet red, Upon the ground I'll throwe it; Then, lady faire, come lay thy head; We'll play, and none shall knowe it.

O yonder stands my steed so free Among the cocks of hay, sir, And if the pinner should chance to see, He'll take my steed away, sir.

Upon my finger I have a ring, Its made of finest gold-a, And, lady, it thy steed shall bring Out of the pinner's fold-a.

O go with me to my father's hall; Fair chambers there are three, sir: And you shall have the best of all, And I'll your chamberlaine bee, sir.

He mounted himself on his steed so tall, And her on her dapple gray, sir: And there they rode to her father's hall, Fast pricking along the way, sir.

To her father's hall they arrived strait; 'Twas moated round about-a; She slipped herself within the gate, And lockt the knight without-a.

Here is a silver penny to spend, And take it for your pain, sir; And two of my father's men I'll send To wait on you back again, sir.

He from his scabbard drew his brand, And wiped it upon his sleeve-a! And cursed, he said, be every man, That will a maid believe-a!

She drew a bodkin from her haire, And wip'd it upon her gown-a; And curs'd be every maiden faire, That will with men lye down-a!

A herb there is, that lowly grows, And some do call it rue, sir: The smallest dunghill cock that Would make a capon of you, sir.

A flower there is, that shineth bright, Some call it mary-gold-a: He that wold not when he might, He shall not when he wold-a.

The knight was riding another day, With cloak, and hat, and feather: He met again with that lady gay, Who was angling in the river.

Now, lady faire, I've met with you, You shall no more escape me; Remember, how not long agoe You falsely did intrap me.

He from his saddle down did light, In all his riche attyer; And cryed, As I'm a noble knight, I do thy charms admyer.

He took the lady by the hand, Who seemingly consented; And would no more disputing stand: She had a plot invented.

Looke yonder, good sir knight, I pray, Methinks I now discover A riding upon his dapple gray, My former constant lover.

On tip-toe peering stood the knight, Past by the rivers brink-a; The lady pusht with all her might: Sir knight, now swim or sink-a.

O'er head and ears he plunged in, The bottom faire he sounded; Then rising up, he cried amain, Help, helpe, or else I'm drownded!

Now, fare-you-well, sir knight, adieu! You see what conies of fooling: That is the fittest place for you; Your courage wanted cooling.

Ere many days, in her fathers park, Just at the close of eve-a, Again she met with her angry sparke; Which made this lady grieve-a.

False lady, here thou'rt in my powre, And no one now can hear thee: And thou shalt sorely rue the hour That e'er thou dar'dst to jeer me.

I pray, sir knight, be not so warm With a young silly maid-a: I vow and swear I thought no harm, 'Twas a gentle jest I playd-a.

A gentle jest, in soothe he cry'd, To tumble me in and leave me! What if I had in the river dy'd?— That fetch will not deceive me.

Once more I'll pardon thee this day, Tho' injur'd out of measure; But thou prepare without delay To yield thee to my pleasure.

Well then, if I must grant your suit, Yet think of your boots and spurs, sir Let me pull off both spur and boot, Or else you cannot stir, sir.

He set him down upon the grass, And begg'd her kind assistance: Now, smiling, thought this lovely lass, I'll make you keep your distance.

Then pulling off his boots half-way; Sir knight, now I'm your betters: You shall not make of me your prey; Sit there like a knave in fetters.

The knight, when she had served him soe, He fretted, fum'd, and grumbled: For he could neither stand nor goe, But like a cripple tumbled.

Farewell, sir knight, the clock strikes ten, Yet do not move nor stir, sir: I'll send you my father's serving men, To pull off your boots and spurs, sir.

This merry jest you must excuse, You are but a stingless nettle: You'd never have stood for boots or shoes, Had you been a man of mettle.

All night in grievous rage he lay, Roiling upon the plain-a; Next morning a shepherd past that way, Who set him right again-a.

Then mounting upon his steed so tall, By hill and dale he swore-a: I'll ride at once to her father's hall; She shall escape no more-a.

I'll take her father by the beard, I'll challenge all her kindred; Each dastard soul shall stand affeard; My wrath shall no more be hindred.

He rode unto her father's house, Which every side was moated: The lady heard his furious vows, And all his vengeance noted.

Thought shee, sir knight, to quench your rage, Once more I will endeavour: This water shall your fury 'swage, Or else it shall burn for ever.

Then faining penitence and feare, She did invite a parley: Sir knight, if you'll forgive me heare, Henceforth I'll love you dearly.

My father he is now from home, And I am all alone, sir: Therefore across the water come, And I am all your own, sir.

False maid, thou canst no more deceive; I scorn the treacherous bait-a; If thou would'st have me thee believe, Now open me the gate-a.

The bridge is drawn, the gate is barr'd, My father he has the keys, sir; But I have for my love prepar'd A shorter way, and easier.

Over the moate I've laid a plank Full seventeen feet in measure, Then step across to the other bank, And there we'll take our pleasure.

These words she had no sooner spoke, But straight he came tripping over: The plank was saw'd, it snapping broke, And sous'd the unhappy lover.

TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD. A TALE. MATTHEW PRIOR.

Once on a time, in sunshine weather, Falsehood and Truth walk'd out together, The neighboring woods and lawns to view, As opposites will sometimes do. Through many a blooming mead they passed, And at a brook arriv'd at last. The purling stream, the margin green, With flowers bedeck'd, a vernal scene, Invited each itinerant maid, To rest a while beneath the shade. Under a spreading beach they sat, And pass'd the time with female chat; Whilst each her character maintain'd; One spoke her thoughts, the other feign'd. At length, quoth Falsehood, sister Truth (For so she call'd her from her youth), What if, to shun yon sultry beam, We bathe in this delightful stream; The bottom smooth, the water clear, And there's no prying shepherd near? With all my heart, the nymph replied, And threw her snowy robes aside, Stript herself naked to the skin, And with a spring leapt headlong in. Falsehood more leisurely undrest, And, laying by her tawdry vest, Trick'd herself out in Truth's array, And 'cross the meadows tript away. From this curst hour, the fraudful dame Of sacred Truth usurps the name, And, with a vile, perfidious mind, Roams far and near, to cheat mankind; False sighs suborns, and artful tears, And starts with vain pretended fears; In visits, still appears most wise, And rolls at church her saint-like eyes; Talks very much, plays idle tricks, While rising stock [Footnote: South Sea, 1720.] her conscience pricks; When being, poor thing, extremely gravel'd, The secrets op'd, and all unravel'd. But on she will, and secrets tell Of John and Joan, and Ned and Nell, Reviling every one she knows, As fancy leads, beneath the rose. Her tongue, so voluble and kind, It always runs before her mind; As times do serve, she slyly pleads, And copious tears still show her needs. With promises as thick as weeds— Speaks pro and con., is wondrous civil, To-day a saint, to-morrow devil. Poor Truth she stript, as has been said, And naked left the lovely maid, Who, scorning from her cause to wince, Has gone stark-naked ever since; And ever naked will appear, Belov'd by all who Truth revere.

FLATTERY. A FABLE. SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.

Fanny, beware of flattery, Your sex's much-lov'd enemy; For other foes we are prepar'd, And Nature puts us on our guard: In that alone such charms are found, We court the dart, we nurse the hand; And this, my child, an Aesop's Fable Will prove much better than I'm able.

A young vain female Crow, Had perch'd upon a pine tree's bough, And sitting there at ease, Was going to indulge her taste, In a most delicious feast, Consisting of a slice of cheese. A sharp-set Fox (a wily creature) Pass'd by that way In search of prey; When to his nose the smell of cheese, Came in a gentle western breeze; No Welchman knew, or lov'd it better: He bless'd th' auspicious wind, And strait look'd round to find, What might his hungry stomach fill, And quickly spied the Crow, Upon a lofty bough, Holding the tempting prize within her bill. But she was perch'd too high, And Reynard could not fly: She chose the tallest tree in all the wood, What then could bring her down? Or make the prize his own? Nothing but flatt'ry could. He soon the silence broke, And thus ingenious hunger spoke: "Oh, lovely bird, Whose glossy plumage oft has stirr'd The envy of the grove; Thy form was Nature's pleasing care, So bright a bloom, so soft an air, All that behold must love. But, if to suit a form like thine, Thy voice be as divine; If both in these together meet, The feather'd race must own Of all their tribe there's none, Of form so fair, of voice so sweet. Who'll then regard the linnet's note, Or heed the lark's melodious throat? What pensive lovers then shall dwell With raptures on their Philomel? The goldfinch shall his plumage hide, The swan abate her stately pride, And Juno's bird no more display His various glories to the sunny day: Then grant thy Suppliant's prayer, And bless my longing ear With notes that I would die to hear!" Flattery prevail'd, the Crow believ'd The tale, and was with joy deceiv'd; In haste to show her want of skill, She open'd wide her bill: She scream'd as if the de'el was in her Her vanity became so strong That, wrapt in her own frightful song, She quite forgot, and dropt her dinner, The morsel fell quick by the place Where Reynard lay, Who seized the prey And eat it without saying grace. He sneezimg cried "The day's my own, My ends obtain'd The prize is gain'd, And now I'll change my note. Vain, foolish, cheated Glow, Lend your attention now, A truth or two I'll tell you! For, since I've fill'd my belly, Of course my flattry's done: Think you I took such pains, And spoke so well only to hear you croak? No, 'twas the luscious bait, And a keen appetite to eat, That first inspir'd, and carried on the cheat 'Twas hunger furnish'd hands and matter, Flatterers must live by those they flatter; But weep not, Crow, a tongue like mine Might turn an abler head than thine; And though reflection may displease, If wisely you apply your thought, To learn the lesson I have taught, Experience, sure, is cheaply bought, And richly worth a slice of cheese."

THE PIG AND MAGPIE. PETER PINDAR.

Cocking his tail, a saucy prig, A Magpie hopped upon a Pig, To pull some hair, forsooth, to line his nest; And with such ease began the hair attack, As thinking the fee simple of the back Was by himself, and not the Pig, possessed.

The Boar looked up as thunder black to Mag, Who, squinting down on him like an arch wag, Informed Mynheer some bristles must be torn. Then briskly went to work, not nicely culling: Got a good handsome beakful by good pulling, And flew, without a "Thank ye" to his thorn.

The Pig set up a dismal yelling: Followed the robber to his dwelling, Who like a fool had built it 'midst a bramble. In manfully he sallied, full of might, Determined to obtain his right, And 'midst the bushes now began to scramble.

He drove the Magpie, tore his nest to rags, And, happy on the downfall, poured his brags: But ere he from the brambles came, alack! His ears and eyes were miserably torn, His bleeding hide in such a plight forlorn, He could not count ten hairs upon his back.

ADVICE TO YOUNG WOMEN, OR, THE ROSE AND STRAWBERRY. PETER PINDAR

Young women! don't be fond of killing, Too well I know your hearts unwilling To hide beneath the vail a charm— Too pleased a sparkling eye to roll, And with a neck to thrill the soul Of every swain with love's alarm.

Yet, yet, if prudence be not near Its snow may melt into a tear.

The dimple smile, and pouting lip, Where little Cupids nectar sip, Are very pretty lures I own: But, ah! if prudence be not nigh, Those lips where all the Cupids lie, May give a passage to a groan.

A Rose, in all the pride of bloom, Flinging around her rich perfume Her form to public notice pushing, Amid the summer's golden glow Peeped on a Strawberry below, Beneath a leaf, in secret blushing.

"Miss Strawberry," exclaimed the Rose, "What's beauty that no mortal knows? What is a charm, if never seen? You really are a pretty creature: Then wherefore hide each blooming feature? Come up, and show your modest mien."

"Miss Rose," the Strawberry replied, "I never did possess a pride That wished to dash the public eye: Indeed, I own that I'm afraid— I think there's safety in the shade, Ambition causes many a sigh."

"Go, simple child," the Rose rejoined, "See how I wanton in the wind: I feel no danger's dread alarms: And then observe the god of day, How amorous with his golden ray, To pay his visits to my charms!"

No sooner said, but with a scream She started from her favorite theme— A clown had on her fixed his pat. In vain she screeched—Hob did but smile; Rubbed with her leaves his nose awhile, Then bluntly stuck her in his hat.

ECONOMY. PETER PINDAR.

Economy's a very useful broom; Yet should not ceaseless hunt about the room To catch each straggling pin to make a plumb: Too oft Economy's an iron vice, That squeezes even the little guts of mice, That peep with fearful eyes, and ask a crumb.

Proper Economy's a comely thing— Good in a subject—better in a king; Yet pushed too far, it dulls each finer feeling— Most easily inclined to make folks mean; Inclines them too, to villainy to lean, To over-reaching, perjury, and stealing.

Even when the heart should only think of grief It creeps into the bosom like a thief, And swallows up th' affections all so mild—Witness the Jewess, and her only child:—

THE JEWESS AND HER SON

Poor Mistress Levi had a luckless son, Who, rushing to obtain the foremost seat, In imitation of th' ambitious great, High from the gallery, ere the play begun, He fell all plump into the pit, Dead in a minute as a nit: In short, he broke his pretty Hebrew neck; Indeed and very dreadful was the wreck!

The mother was distracted, raving, wild— Shrieked, tore her hair, embraced and kissed her child— Afflicted every heart with grief around: Soon as the shower of tears was somewhat past, And moderately calm th' hysteric blast, She cast about her eyes in thought profound And being with a saving knowledge blessed, She thus the playhouse manager addressed:

"Sher, I'm de moder of de poor Chew lad, Dat meet mishfartin here so bad— Sher, I muss haf de shilling back, you know, Ass Moses haf not see de show."

But as for Avarice, 'tis the very devil; The fount, alas! of every evil: The cancer of the heart—the worst of ills: Wherever sown, luxuriantly it thrives; No flower of virtue near it lives: Like aconite where'er it spreads, it kills. In every soil behold the poison spring! Can taint the beggar, and infect the king.

The mighty Marlborough pilfered cloth and bread, So says that gentle satirist Squire Pope; And Peterborough's Earl upon this head, Affords us little room to hope, That what the Twitnam bard avowed, Might not be readily allowed.

THE COUNTBY LASSES. PETER PINDAR.

Peter lasheth the Ladies.—He turneth Story-teller.—Peter grieveth.

Although the ladies with such beauty blaze, They very frequently my passion raise— Their charms compensate, scarce, their want of TASTE. Passing amidst the Exhibition crowd, I heard some damsels FASHIONABLY loud; And thus I give the dialogue that pass'd.

"Oh! the dear man!" cried one, "look! here's a bonnet! He shall paint ME—I am determin'd on it— Lord! cousin, see! how beautiful the gown! What charming colors! here's fine lace, here's gauze! What pretty sprigs the fellow draws! Lord, cousin! he's the cleverest man in town!"

"Ay, cousin," cried a second, "very true— And here, here's charming green, and red, and blue! There's a complexion beats the ROUGE of Warren! See those red lips; oh, la! they seem so nice! What rosy cheeks then, cousin, to entice!— Compar'd to this, all other heads are carrion.

"Cousin, this limner quickly will be seen, Painting the Princess Royal, and the Queen: Pray, don't you think as I do, COZ? But we 'll be painted FIRST that POZ."

Such was the very PRETTY conversation That pass'd between the PRETTY misses, While unobserv'd, the glory of our nation, Close by them hung Sir Joshua's matchless pieces Works! that a Titian's hand could form alone— Works! that a Reubens had been proud to own.

Permit me, ladies, now to lay before ye What lately happen'd—therefore a true story:—

A STORY.

Walking one afternoon along the Strand, My wond'ring eyes did suddenly expand Upon a pretty leash of country lasses.

"Heav'ns! my dear beauteous angels, how d'ye do? Upon my soul I'm monstrous glad to see ye." "Swinge! Peter, we are glad to meet with you; We're just to London come—well, pray how be ye?

"We're just a going, while 'tis light, To see St. Paul's before 'tis dark. Lord! come, for once, be so polite, And condescend to be our spark."

"With all my heart, my angels."—On we walk'd, And much of London—much of Cornwall talk'd. Now did I hug myself to think How much that glorious structure would surprise, How from its awful grandeur they would shrink With open mouths, and marv'ling eyes!

As near to Ludgate-Hill we drew, St. Paul's just opening on our view; Behold, my lovely strangers, one and all, Gave, all at once, a diabolic squawl, As if they had been tumbled on the stones, And some confounded cart had crush'd their bones.

After well fright'ning people with their cries, And sticking to a ribbon-shop their eyes, They all rush'd in, with sounds enough to stun, And clattering all together, thus begun:—

"Swinge! here are colors then, to please! Delightful things, I vow to heav'n! Why! not to see such things as these, We never should have been forgiv'n.

"Here, here, are clever things—good Lord! And, sister, here, upon my word— Here, here!—look! here are beauties to delight: Why! how a body's heels might dance Along from Launceston to Penzance, Before that one might meet with such a sight!"

"Come, ladies, 'twill be dark," cried I—"I fear. Pray let us view St. Paul's, it is so near"— "Lord! Peter," cried the girls, "don't mind St. Paul! Sure! you're a most INCURIOUS soul— Why—we can see the church another day; Don't be afraid—St. Paul's can't RUN AWAY."

Reader, If e'er thy bosom felt a thought SUBLIME, Drop tears of pity with the man of rhyme!

THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS. PETER PINDAR.

Peter continueth to give great Advice, and to exhibit deep reflection —He telleth a miraculous Story.

There is a knack in doing many a thing, Which labor can not to perfection bring: Therefore, however great in your own eyes, Pray do not hints from other folks despise:

A fool on something great, at times, may stumble, And consequently be a good adviser: On which, forever, your wise men may fumble, And never be a whit the wiser

Yes! I advise you, for there's wisdom in't, Never to be superior to a, hint— The genius of each man, with keenness view— A spark from this, or t'other, caught, May kindle, quick as thought, A glorious bonfire up in you. A question of you let me beg— Of fam'd Columbus and his egg. Pray, have you heard? "Yes."—O, then, if you please I'll give you the two Pilgrims and the Peas.

THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS. A TRUE STORY.

A brace of sinners, for no good, Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, And in a fair white wig look'd wondrous fine.

Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, With something in their shoes much worse than gravel In short, their toes so gentle to amuse, The priest had order'd peas into their shoes:

A nostrum famous in old Popish times For purifying souls that stunk of crimes: A sort of apostolic salt, Which Popish parsons for its powers exalt, For keeping souls of sinners sweet, Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.

The knaves set off on the same day, Peas in their shoes, to go and pray: But very diff'rent was their speed, I wot: One of the sinners gallop'd on, Swift as a bullet from a gun; The other limp'd, as if he had been shot.

One saw the Virgin soon—peccavi cried— Had his soul white-wash'd all so clever; Then home again he nimbly hied, Made fit, with saints above, to live forever.

In coming back, however, let me say, He met his brother rogue about half way— Hobbling, with out-stretch'd hands and bending knees; Damning the souls and bodies of the peas: His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brows in sweat, Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.

"How now," the light-toed, white-washed pilgrim broke "You lazy lubber! 'Ods curse it," cried the other, "'tis no joke— My feet, once hard as any rock, Are now as soft as any blubber.

"Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear— As for Loretto I shall not get there; No! to the Dev'l my sinful soul must go, For damme if I ha'nt lost ev'ry toe.

"But, brother sinner, pray explain How 'tis that you are not in pain: What pow'r hath work'd a wonder for YOUR toes: While I, just like a snail am crawling, Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling, While not a rascal comes to ease my woes?

"How is't that YOU can like a greyhound go, Merry, as if that naught had happen'd, burn ye?" "Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know, That just before I ventur'd on my journey, To walk a little more at ease, I took the liberty to boil MY peas.'"

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLDFISHES. THOMAS GRAY.

'Twas on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow, Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw, and purred applause.

Still had she gaz'd, but, 'midst the Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue, Through richest purple, to the view Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless nymph with wonder saw A whisker first, and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretched in vain to reach the prize; What female heart can gold despise? What Cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent, Again she stretched, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between: (Malignant Fate sat by and smiled) The slippery verge her feet beguiled; She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood, She mewed to every watery god Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred, Nor cruel Tom or Susan heard: A fav'rite has no friend!

From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived, Know one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold: Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize, Nor all that glistens gold.

THE RETIRED CAT. WILLIAM COWPER.

A poet's cat, sedate and grave As poet well could wish to have, Was much addicted to inquire For nooks to which she might retire, And where, secure as mouse in chink, She might repose, or sit and think. I know not where she caught the trick; Nature perhaps herself had cast her In such a mold PHILOSOPHIQUE, Or else she learned it of her master. Sometimes ascending, debonair, An apple-tree, or lofty pear, Lodged with convenience in the fork, She watched the gardener at his work; Sometimes her ease and solace sought In an old empty watering-pot, There wanting nothing, save a fan, To seem some nymph in her sedan, Appareled in exactest sort, And ready to be borne to court.

But love of change it seems has place Not only in our wiser race; Cats also feel, as well as we, That passion's force, and so did she. Her climbing, she began to find, Exposed her too much to the wind, And the old utensil of tin Was cold and comfortless within: She therefore wished, instead of those, Some place of more serene repose, Where neither cold might come, nor air Too rudely wanton in her hair, And sought it in the likeliest mode Within her master's snug abode.

A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined With linen of the softest kind, With such as merchants introduce From India, for the ladies' use; A drawer, impending o'er the rest, Half open, in the topmost chest, Of depth enough, and none to spare, Invited her to slumber there; Puss with delight beyond expression, Surveyed the scene and took possession Recumbent at her ease, ere long, And lulled by her own humdrum song, She left the cares of life behind, And slept as she would sleep her last, When in came, housewifely inclined, The chambermaid, and shut it fast, By no malignity impelled, But all unconscious whom it held.

Awakened by the shock (cried puss) "Was ever cat attended thus! The open drawer was left, I see, Merely to prove a nest for me, For soon as I was well composed, Then came the maid, and it was closed. How smooth those 'kerchiefs, and how sweet Oh what a delicate retreat! I will resign myself to rest Till Sol declining in the west, Shall call to supper, when, no doubt, Susan will come, and let me out."

The evening came, the sun descended, And puss remained still unattended. The night rolled tardily away (With her indeed 'twas never day), The sprightly morn her course renewed, The evening gray again ensued, And puss came into mind no more Than if entombed the day before; With hunger pinched, and pinched for room, She now presaged approaching doom. Nor slept a single wink, nor purred, Conscious of jeopardy incurred.

That night, by chance, the poet, watching, Heard an inexplicable scratching; His noble heart went pit-a-pat, And to himself he said—"What's that?" He drew the curtain at his side, And forth he peeped, but nothing spied. Yet, by his ear directed, guessed Something imprisoned in the chest; And, doubtful what, with prudent care Resolved it should continue there. At length a voice which well he knew, A long and melancholy mew, Saluting his poetic ears, Consoled him, and dispelled his fears; He left his bed, he trod the floor, He 'gan in haste the drawers explore, The lowest first, and without stop The next in order to the top. For 'tis a truth well know to most, That whatsoever thing is lost, We seek it, ere it come to light, In every cranny but the right. Forth skipped the cat, not now replete As erst with airy self-conceit, Nor in her own fond comprehension, A theme for all the world's attention, But modest, sober, cured of all Her notions hyperbolical, And wishing for a place of rest, Any thing rather than a chest. Then stepped the poet into bed With this reflection in his head:

MORAL.

Beware of too sublime a sense Of your own worth and consequence. The man who dreams himself so great, And his importance of such weight, That all around in all that's done Must move and act for him alone, Will learn in school of tribulation The folly of his expectation.

SAYING NOT MEANING. WILLIAM BASIL WAKE.

Two gentlemen their appetite had fed, When opening his toothpick-case, one said, "It was not until lately that I knew That anchovies on terra firma grew. "Grow!" cried the other, "yes, they GROW, indeed, Like other fish, but not upon the land; You might as well say grapes grow on a reed, Or in the Strand!"

"Why, sir," returned the irritated other, "My brother, When at Calcutta Beheld them bona fide growing; He wouldn't utter A lie for love or money, sir; so in This matter you are thoroughly mistaken." "Nonsense, sir! nonsense! I can give no credit To the assertion—none e'er saw or read it; Your brother, like his evidence, should be shaken."

"Be shaken, sir! let me observe, you are Perverse—in short—" "Sir," said the other, sucking his cigar, And then his port— "If you will say impossibles are true, You may affirm just any thing you please— That swans are quadrupeds, and lions blue, And elephants inhabit Stilton cheese! Only you must not, FORCE me to believe What's propagated merely to deceive."

"Then you force me to say, sir, you're a fool," Return'd the bragger. Language like this no man can suffer cool: It made the listener stagger; So, thunder-stricken, he at once replied, "The traveler LIED Who had the impudence to tell it you;" "Zounds! then d'ye mean to swear before my face That anchovies DON'T grow like cloves and mace?" "I DO!"

Disputants often after hot debates Leave the contention as they found it—bone, And take to duelling or thumping tetes; Thinking by strength of artery to atone For strength of argument; and he who winces From force of words, with force of arms convinces!

With pistols, powder, bullets, surgeons, lint, Seconds, and smelling-bottles, and foreboding, Our friends advanced; and now portentous loading (Their hearts already loaded) serv'd to show It might be better they shook hands—but no; When each opines himself, though frighten'd, right Each is, in courtesy, oblig'd to fight! And they DID fight: from six full measured paces The unbeliever pulled his trigger first; And fearing, from the braggart's ugly faces, The whizzing lead had whizz'd its very worst, Ran up, and with a DUELISTIC fear (His ire evanishing like morning vapors), Found nim possess'd of one remaining ear, Who in a manner sudden and uncouth, Had given, not lent, the other ear to truth; For while the surgeon was applying lint, He, wriggling, cried—"The deuce is in't—Sir! I MEANT—CAPERS!"