Part 4 — THE SICK CHILD. [BY THE HONOBABLE WILHELMINA SKEGGS.] PUNCH.

A weakness seizes on my mind—I would more pudding take; But all in vain—I feel—I feel—my little head will ache. Oh! that I might alone be left, to rest where now I am, And finish with a piece of bread that pot of currant jam.

I gaze upon the cake with tears, and wildly I deplore That I must take a powder if I touch a morsel more, Or oil of castor, smoothly bland, will offer'd be to me, In wave pellucid, floating on a cup of milkless tea.

It may be so—I can not tell—I yet may do without; They need not know, when left alone, what I have been about. I long to eat that potted beef—to taste that apple-pie; I long—I long to eat some more, but have not strength to try.

I gasp for breath, and now I know I've eaten far too much; Not one more crumb of all the feast before me can I touch. Susan, oh! Susan, ring the bell, and call for mother, dear, My brain swims round—I feel it all—mother, your child is queer!

THE IMAGINATIVE CRISIS. PUNCH.

Oh, solitude! thou wonder-working fay, Come nurse my feeble fancy in your arms, Though I, and thee, and fancy town-pent lay, Come, call around, a world of country charms. Let all this room, these walls dissolve away, And bring me Surrey's fields to take their place: This floor be grass, and draughts as breezes play; Yon curtains trees, to wave in summer's face; My ceiling, sky; my water-jug a stream; My bed, a bank, on which to muse and dream. The spell is wrought: imagination swells My sleeping-room to hills, and woods, and dells! I walk abroad, for naught my footsteps hinder, And fling my arms. Oh! mi! I've broke the WINDER!

LINES TO BESSY. [BY A STUDENT AT LAW.] PUNCH.

My head is like a title-deed, Or abstract of the same: Wherein, my Bessy, thou may'st read Thine own long-cherish'd name.

Against thee I my suit have brought, I am thy plaintiff lover, And for the heart that thou hast caught, An action lies—of trover.

Alas, upon me every day The heaviest costs you levy: Oh, give me back my heart—but nay! I feel I can't replevy.

I'll love thee with my latest breath, Alas, I can not YOU shun, Till the hard hand of SHERIFF death Takes me in execution.

Say, BESSY dearest, if you will Accept me as a lover? Must true affection file a bill The secret to discover?

Is it my income's small amount That leads to hesitation? Refer the question of account To CUPID'S arbitration.