A CERTAIN priest had hoarded up
A secret mass of gold;
But where he might bestow it safe,
By fancy was not told.

At last it came into his head

To lock it in a chest Within the chancel; and he wrote Thereon, Hic Deus est. A merry grig, whose greedy mind Long wish'd for such a prey, Respecting not the sacred words That on the casket lay,

Took out the gold; and blotting out The priest's inscript thereon; Wrote, Resurrexit, non est hic,

"Your god is ris'n and gone."

Hard is her heart as flint or stone,
She laughs to see me pale;
And merry as a grig is grown,
And brisk as bottled ale.

The god of love at her approach
Is busy as a bee;
Hearts sound as any bell or roach
Are smit, and sigh like me.

Ah me! as thick as hops or hail

The fine men crowd about her; But soon as dead as a door-nail

Shall I be, if without her.
Straight as my leg her shape appears;
O! were we join'd together,
My heart would be scot-free from cares,
And lighter than a feather.

As fine as fivepence is her mien,
No drum was ever tighter;
Her glance is as a razor keen,

And not the sun is brighter.
As soft as pap her kisses are,

Methinks I taste them yet; Brown as a berry is her hair, Her eyes as black as jet.

As smooth as glass, as white as curds,
Her pretty hand invites;

Sharp as a needle are her words,
Her wit like pepper bites.
Brisk as a body-louse she trips,
Clean as a penny drest;
Sweet as a rose her breath and lips,
Round as a globe her breast.
Full as an egg was I with glee,
And happy as a king!

Good Lord! how all men envied me!
She lov'd like any thing:
But false as hell, she like the wind
Chang'd as her sex must do ;
Though seeming as the turtle kind,
And like the Gospel true.

If I and Molly could agree,

Let who would take Peru;
Great as an emperor should I be,
And richer than a Jew.

Till you grow tender as a chick,
I'm dull as any post;
Let us like burrs together stick,
And warm as any toast.

You'll find me truer than a die;

And wish me better sped, Flat as a flounder when I lie, And as a herring dead. Sure as a gun she'll drop a tear, And sigh perhaps, and wish, When I am rotten as a pear, And mute as any fish.

On the Word REPRESENTATIVE.

To represent is but to personate, Which should be truly done at any rate. Thus they who're fairly chose without a fee, Should give their votes, no doubt, with liberty, But when a seat is sold 7 th' venal tribe, He represents them best-who takes a bribe.

On the Shortness of Human Life. LIKE as a damask rose you see, Or like the blossom on a tree; Or like the dainty flower in May, Or like the morning to the day; Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd which Jonas had; E'en such is man, whose thread is spun, Drawn out and cut, and so is done: Withers the rose, the blossom blasts, The flower fades, the morning hastes; The sun doth set, the shadows fly, The gourd consumes, and mortals die.

Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that's new begun;
Or like a bird that's here to-day,
Or like the pearled dew of May;
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan;
E'en such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death:
The grass decays, the tale doth end,
The bird is flown, the dews ascend;
The hour is short, the span not long,
The swan's near death, man's life is done.

Like to the bubble in the brook,
Or in a glass much like a look:
Or like the shuttle in the hand,
Or like the writing in the sand;
Or like a thought, or like a dream,
Or like the gliding of the stream;
E'en such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death:
The bubble's burst, the look's forgot,
The shuttle's flung, the writing's blot;
The thought is past, the dream is gone,
The water glides, man's life is done.

Epitaph on Captain Jones, Who published some marvellous Accounts of s Travels, the Truth of all which he thou proper to testify by affidavit.

TREAD Softly, mortals, o'er the bones Of the world's wonder, Captain Jones!

SAY, is there aught that can convey

An image of its transient stay?
'Tis a hand's breadth; 'tis a tale;
'Tis a vessel under sail;

'Tis a courser's straining steed;
"Tis a shuttle in its speed;

"Tis an eagle in its way,

Darting down upon
its prey;
'Tis an arrow in its flight,
Mocking the pursuing sight;
'Tis a vapour in the air;

'Tis a whirlwind rushing there;
"Tis a short-liv'd fading flow'r;
"Tis a rainbow on a show'r;
'Tis a momentary ray
Smiling in a winter's day;
'Tis a torrent's rapid stream;
'Tis a shadow; 'tis a dream;
'Tis the closing watch of night;
Dying at approaching light,

* Dr. Sheridan.

"Tis a landscape vainly gay,
Painted upon crumbling clay;
'Tis a lamp that wastes its fires;
'Tis a smoke that quick expires;
'Tis a bubble, 'tis a sigh:
Be prepar'd, O Man! to die.

An Anatomical Epitaph on an Invalid.
Written by HIMSELF.、

HERE lies a head that often ach'd;
Here lie two hands that always shak'd;
Here lies a brain of odd conceit;
Here lie two eyes that daily wept,
Here lies a heart that often beat;
And in the night but seldom slept ;
Here lies a tongue that whining talk'd,
Here lie the midriff and the breast,
Here lie two feet that feebly walk'd;
With loads of indigestion prest;
Here lies the liver, full of bile,
That ne'er secreted proper chyle;
Here lie the bowels, human tripes,
Tortur'd with wind and twisting gripes;
Here lies the livid dab, the spleen,
The source of life's sad tragic scene,
That left-side weight that clogs the blood,
And stagnates nature's circling flood;
Here lie the nerves, so often twitch'd
With painful cramps and poignant stitch;
Here lies the back, oft rack'd with pains,
Corroding kidneys, loins, and reins;
Here lies the skin by scurvy fed,
With pimples and eruptions red;
Here lies the man, from top to toe,
That fabric fram'd for pain' and woe.

A Poem,

By Sir WALTER Raleigh. SHALL I like an hermit dwell On a rock or in a cell, Calling home the smallest part That is missing of my heart, To bestow it where I may Meet a rival ev'ry day? If she undervalue me, What care I how fair she be?

Were her tresses angel-gold;
If a stranger may be bold,
Unrebuked, unafraid,

To convert them to a brayde,
And, with little more ado,
Work them into bracelets too;
If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be?

Were her hands as rich a prize
As her hair, or precious eyes;
If she laid them out to take
Kisses, for good manners' sake,
And let ev'ry lover skip
From her hand unto her lip;
If she seem not chaste to me,
What care I how chaste she be?

No; she must be perfect snow In effect, as well as show; Warming but as snow-balls do, Not like fire by burning too; But when she by change hath got To her heart a second lot, Then, if others share with me, Farewell her, whate'er she be!

A Poem,

Occasioned by the foregoing.

The Stage Coach.

RESOLV'D to visit a far-distant friend, A porter to the Bull-and-Gate I send, And bid the slave at all events engage Some place or other in the Chester stage. The slave returns-'tis done as soon as saidYour honor's sure when once the money's paid; My brother whip, impatient of delay, Puts to at three, and swears he cannot stay; (Four dismal hours ere the break of day.) Rous'd from sound sleep, thrice call'd, at length I rise, [eyes; Yawning, stretch out my arms, half close my By steps and lanthorn enter the machine,

Or chequer so thy face with spots,

That I must view thee, as men strive
To see eclipses, through a sieve;

Be thou but pleasing unto me,
What care I what else thou be?

Be thou fatter than a hog,
A butcher's doublet, or his dog;
Be thy cheeks butter, thy nose grease;
May we make brewis on thy face;
Yet if thou do not melt to me,
What care I how fat thou be?

Be thy nose like fiery coals,
Or a grater, full of holes,
Let it turn up, or else hook in,
And so be clasp'd unto thy chin;
Yet, if it turn not unto me,
What care I how crook'd it be?

Though reading, thou must look so close,
As thou wert reading with thy nose;
From thine eyes let filth run more
Than broken boil, or plaguy sore;
Yet if they do not look on me,
What care I how foul they be?

Canst thou outscold a butter wench,
Or a fresh lawyer at the bench;
Canst thou the noise of thunder drown,
Sour all the beer about the town?
Yet, if thou wilt not speak to me,
What care I how loud thou be?

Be thy mouth like jaws of death,
That they who kiss, must kiss thy teeth;
And hold by th' handle of thy chin,
Lest their foot slip, and they fall in ;
Yet, if thou wilt not gape on me,
What care I how broad it be?

Smells thy breath like nurse's clout,
Or a candle just burnt out;
Or so, that men mistake the place,
And untruss, coming near thy face!
Yet, if it smell not so to me,
What care I how strong it be?

Women, like paper, whilst they're white,
Are fit for every man to write;
I'd have a mistress such a one,
I might be sure she was my own;
Be thou then but such to me,
What care I what else thou be?

Two aged matrons of excessive bulk,
To mend the matter too, of meaner folk;
While in like mode jamm'd in on th' other side
A bullying captain and a fair one ride;
Foolish as fair, and in whose lap a boy-
Our plague eternal, but her only joy;
At last, the glorious number to complete,
Steps in my landlord for that bodkin seat:
When soon, by ev'ry hillock, rut, and stone,
Into each other's face by turns we're thrown;
This grannam scolds, that coughs, and captain

Mr. Garrick being asked by a Nobleman if he did not intend to sit in Parliament, gave him an Answer in the following Lines :

MORE than content with what my talents
gain,

Of public favor though a little vain,
Yet not so vain my mind, so madly bent,
To wish to play the fool in Parliament;
In each dramatic unity to err,
Mistaking time, and place, and character.
Were it my fate to quit the mimic art,
I'd strut and fret" no more in any part;
No more in public scenes would I engage,
Or wear the cap and mask on any stage.

The Thought; or, a Song of Similes. I've thought, the fair Narcissa cries, What is it like, Sir?—" Like your eyes— "Tis like a chair-'tis like a key'Tis like a purge-'tis like a flea'Tis like a beggar-like the sun"Tis like the Dutch-'tis like the moon"Tis like a kilderkin of ale"Tis like a doctor-like a whale-" Why are my eyes, Sir, like a SWORD? For that's the Thought, upon my word.

"Ah! witness every pang I feel, The deaths they give the likeness tell. A sword is like a chair, you'll find, Because 'tis most on end behind. "Tis like a key, for 'twill undo one: "Tis like a purge, for 'twill run through one; "Tis like a flea, and reason good, 'Tis often drawing human blood." Why like a beggar?" You shall hear; "Tis often carried 'fore the May'r. "Tis like the sun, because 'tis gilt, Besides it travels in a belt. 'Tis like the Dutch we plainly see, Because that state, whenever we A push for our own int'rest make, Does instantly our sides forsake."

Genius and virtue, strength with softness join'd; Devotion undebas'd by pride or art,

With meek simplicity, and joy of heart;

A sword is very like the moon;

For if his Majesty (God bless him),

When Country Sheriff comes t' address him,
Is pleas'd his favors to bestow

On him, before him kneeling low,
This o'er his shoulders glitters bright,
And gives the glory to the Knight (night).
"Tis like a kilderkin, no doubt,
For 'tis not long in drawing out.
'Tis like a doctor, for who will
Dispute a doctor's power to kill?"
But why a Sword is like a whale
Is no such easy thing to tell.

"But since all Swords are Swords, d'ye see,
Why, let it then a backsword be;
Which, if well us'd, will seldom fail
To raise up somewhat like a whale."

The Astronomer's Room.

ONE day I call'd, and Philo out,
I op'd the door, and look'd about;
When, all his goods being full in view,
I took this inventory true :-

Item. A bed without a curtain ;
A broken jar to empty dirt in ;
A candlestick, a greasy night-cap,
A spitting-pot to catch what might hap;
Two stockings darn'd with numerous stitches,
A piece of shirt, a pair of breeches;
A three-legg'd stool, a four-legg'd table,
Were fill'd with books unfit for rabble;
Sines, tangents, secants, radius, co-sines,
Subtangents, segments, and all those signs;
Enough to show the man that made 'em
Was full as mad as he who read 'em :
An almanack of six years standing,
A cup with ink, and one with sand in;
One corner held his books and chest,
And round the floor were strew'd the rest;
That all things might be like himself,
He'd neither closet, drawer, or shelf,
Here piss-pot, sauce-pot, broken platter,
Appear'd like het'rogeneous matter.
In ancient days the walls were white,
But who 'gainst damps and snails can fight?
They're now in wreathy ringlets bound,
Some square, some oval, and some round;
The antiquarian there may find
Each hieroglyphic to his mind;

And

only of thyself a judge severe; [cere; Unblam'd, unequall'd in each sphere of life, The tenderest daughter, sister, parent, wife. In thee their patroness the afflicted lost, Thy friends, their pattern, ornamental boast; And I-but ah! can words my loss declare, Or paint th' extremes of transport and despair? O thou beyond what verse or speech can tell, My guide, my friend, my best-belov'd, farewell!