CONJUGAL LOVE..

Could Kate for Dick compose the Gordian string,
The Tyburn knot how near the nuptial ring!
A loving wife, obedient to her vows,

Is bound in duty to exalt her spouse.

ON SEEING VERSES WRITTEN UPON WINDOWS AT INNS.

The sage who said he would be proud

Of windows in his breast,
Because he ne'er one thought allow'd
That might not be confest;
His window scrawl'd by ev'ry rake,
His breast again would cover;
And fairly bid the devil take

The di'mond and the lover.

ANOTHER.

That love is the devil I'll prove when requir'd;
These rhymers abundantly show it :
They swear that they all by love are inspir'd,
And the devil's a damnable poet.

THE BEST OF A BAD JOB.

When Dr. Franklin was agent in England for the province of Pennsylvania, he was frequently applied to by the ministry for his opinion respecting the operation of the Stamp Act; but his answer was uniformly the same," that the people of America would never submit to it," After the news of the destruction of the stamped papers had arrived in England, the ministry again sent for the Doctor to consult with; and in conclusion offered this proposal : "That if the Americans would engage to pay for the damage done in the destruction of the stamped paper, &c. the parliament would then repeal the act." The Doctor, having paused upon this question for some time, at last answered it as follows:-"This puts me in mind of a Frenchman, who, having beated a poker red-hot, ran furiously into the street, and addressing the first Englishman he met there, Hah! monsieur, voulezvous give me de plaisir, de satisfaction, to let me run this poker only one foot into your body? My body!' replied the Englishman: what do you mean?'- Vel den, only so far,' marking about six inches., Are you mad ? returned the other; I

tell you, if you don't go about your business, I' knock you down. Vel den,' said the Frenchman, softening his voice and manner; vil you, my good sir, only be so obliging as to pay me for the troute and expense of heating this poker?" "*

CRITICISM.

Nothing can be finer than Swift's description of the dwelling and attendants of Criticism in the Battle of the Books. "This malignant deity dwelt os the top of a snowy mountain in Nova Zembla. Momus found her extended in her den upon the spoils of numberless volumes half devoured. A her right hand sat Ignorance, her father and bosband, blind with age; at her left, Pride, ber no ther, dressing her up in the scraps of paper hers! had torn. There was Opinion, her sister, light of foot, hood-winked, and headstrong, yet giddy and perpetually turning. About her played her chaldren, Noise and Impudence, Dulness and Vasty, Positiveness, Pedantry, and Ill Manners."

THE PLEASING REPULSE.

She that denies me, I would bave,

Who craves me I despise,

Venus has pow'r to rule my heart,
But not to please my eyes.
Temptations offer'd, I still scorn,
Deny'd, I seek them still,
I'll neither glut my appetite,

Nor seek to starve iny will.
Diana, double-cloth'd, offends,
So Venus, naked quite,
The last begets a surfeit, and
The other no delight.

That crafty girl will please me best,
Who No for Yes can say,

And ev'ry wanton willing puss
Can season with a Nay.

MR. CESAR.

Swift dined one day in company with the Lord eeper, his son, and their two ladies, and Mr. sar, treasurer of the navy, at his house in the y. They happened to talk of Brutus, and Swift id something in his praise; when it struck him mediately that he had made a blunder in doing ; and therefore recollecting himself, he said, Mr. Cæsar, I beg your pardon."

OLIVER CROMWELL.

A Ballad, by Samuel Butler

Draw near, good people, all draw near, And hearken to my ditty; A stranger thing, Than this I sing, Came never to this city. Had you but seen this monster, You wou'd not give a farthing For the lions in the grate, Nor the mountain-cat, Nor the bears in Paris-garden. You wou'd defy the pageants, Are borne before the mayor; The strangest shape, You e'er did gape Upon at Bart'lmy-fair! His face is round and decent, As is your dish or platter, On which there grows A thing like a nose,

But, indeed, it is no such matter.

On both sides of th' aforesaid

Are eyes, but th'are not matches,
On which there are
To be seen two fair,

And large, well-grown mustaches.

Now this with admiration

Does all beholders strike,

That a beard should grow
Upon a thing's brow,

Did ye ever see the like?

He has no skull, 'tis well known
To thousands of beholders;
Nothing, but a skin,
Does keep his brains in

From running about his shoulders.
On both sides of his noddle
Are straps o'th' very same leather,
Ears are imply'd,

But th'are mere hide,

Or morsels of tripe, choose ye whether. Between these two extendeth

A slit from ear to ear,

That, every hour,
Gapes to devour

The sowce, that grows so near.

Beneath a tuft of bristles,

As rough as a frize-jerkin;
If it had been a beard,
"Twou'd have serv'd a herd
Of goats, that are of his near kin.
Within a set of grinders

Most sharp and keen, corroding
Your ir'n and brass,

The winds did blow, the thunder
And lightning loud did rumble ;
The dogs did howl,

The hollow tree in th' owl-
'Tis a good horse that ne'er stumbl'd.
As soon as he was brought forth,
At th' midwife's throat he flew ;
And threw the pap
Down in her lap;
They say, 'tis very true.
And up the walls he clamber'd,
With nails most sharp and keen,
The prints whereof,
I'th' boards and roof,
Are yet for to be seen.

And out o'th' top o'th' chimney
He vanish'd, seen of none;
For they did wink,

Yet by the stink

Knew, which way he was gone.

The country round about there
Became like to a wildern-
-ess; for the sight
Of him did fright

Away men, women, and children.

Long did he there continue;

And all those parts much harmed; 'Till a wise-woman, which Some call a White-witch, Him into a hogsty charmed. There, when she had him shut fast, With brimstone and with nitre

She sing'd the claws

Of his left paws,

With tip of his tail and his right ear.
And with her charms and ointments
She made him tame as a spaniel;
For she us'd to ride

On his back astride,
Nor did he do her any ill.

But, to the admiration
Of all both far and near,

He hath been shown
In every town,

And eke in every shire.

And now, at length, he's brought
Unto fair London city,

Where, in Fleet-street,
All those may see't,

That will not believe my ditty.
God save the king and parliament,
And eke the prince's highness;
And quickly send
The wars an end,

As here my song has-Finis.

A GOOD SORT OF MAN.

Pray," said a lady to Foote, "what sort of man is Sir John D. ?"—" Öh! a very good sort of man." -"But what do you call a good sort of man!"Why, Madam, one who preserves all the exterier decencies of ignorance.”

66

POETICAL LAW REPORTS.

Cowper, the poet, in one of his letters has made the following humorous proposal for the publication of poetical law-reports :

"Poetical reports of law-cases are not very common; yet it appears to me desirable that they should be so ;-many advantages would accrue from such a measure. They would in the first place be more commodiously deposited in the memory, just as linen, grocery, and other articles, when neatly packed, are known to occupy less room, and to lie more conveniently in any trunk, chest, or box, to which they may be committed. In the next place, being divested of that infinite circumlocution, and the endless embarrassment in which they are invalved by it, they would become surprisingly intelligible in comparison with their present obscurity. And lastly, they would by that means be rendered susceptible of musical embellishment; and instead of being quoted in the country with that dull monotony, which is so wearisome to by-standers, and frequently lulls even the judges themselves to sleep, might be rehearsed in recitative, which would have an admirable effect in keeping the attention fixed and lively, and would not fail to disperse that heavy atmosphere of sadness and gravity which hangs over the jurisprudence of our country. I remember many years ago being informed by a relation of mine, who in his youth had applied himself to the study of the law, that one of his fellowstudents, a gentleman of sprightly parts, and very respectable talents, of the poetical kind, did actually engage in the prosecution of such a design, for reasons I suppose somewhat similar to, if not the same with, those I have now suggested. He began with Coke's Institutes, a book so rugged in its style that an attempt to polish it seemed an Herculean labour, and not less arduous and difficult than it would be to give the smoothness of a rabbit's fur to the prickly back of a hedgehog. But he succeeded to admiration, as you will perceive by the following specimen, which is all that my said relation could recollect of the performance,