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Poides, he knew, whate'er the plan.
That tempts the fond pursuits of man, ough pleasure may the course attend,
The Wis are heedful of the end.
Hence, though of mirth a lucky store,
. So aptly tumbled in his way,
Yo! soft he linger'd after more,
And thus he said, or seem'd to say:—
...How will the people fret and scold,
When they the bony wreck behold;
And how the drunken rogue will state,
When first he sees what was the hare.
To demovement must needs be drell,
Tree folly not to see the whole.”
oming thus the future pleasure, *an kept post, to wait the sleeper's leisure.
At length our porter's slumbers o'er
He jogg'd on tott'ring as before;
Inconscious any body, kind,
Had eas'd him of his load behind.
Now on the houses turn'd his eye,
As if his journey's end was nigh,
Then read a paper in his hand,
And made a stand.
Haman drew near with eager inien, To mark the closing of the scene, Expecting straight a furious din, His features ready for a grin. * now we need but mention one thing more, To show how well he must have lik'd the whim, * runk, our porter hit at last the door, And Haman found the hare was sent to him.
A clergyman was so much averse to the Athana. *an creed, that he never would read it. The arch*hop having been informed of his recusancy sent the archdeacon to ask him the reason. “I do not * eye it,” said the priest. “But your metropolitan *" replied the archdeacon. “It may be so,” re joined the other, “ and he can well afford it. He
A member of this 4.sculapian line,
Liv'd at Newcastle upon Tyne:
No man could better gild a pill,
Or make a bill ;
Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;
Or draw a tooth out of your head;
Or chatter scandal by your bed :
Or give a glister.
Of occupations, these were quantum suff,
Yet still he thought the list not long enough:
And therefore midwifery he chose to pin to't.
This balanc'd things:—for if he hurl’d
A few score mortals from the world,
He made amends by bringing others into't,
His same full six miles round the country ran :
In short, in reputation he was solos;
All the old women called him “a five man
His name was Bolus.
Benjamin Bolus, though in trade,
(Which oftentimes will genius fetter);
Read works of fancy, it is said :
And cultivated the Belles Lettres.
And why should this be thought so odd?
Can't men have taste who cure a phthisic?
Of poetry though patron god,
Apollo patronises physic.
Bolus lov’d verse, and took so much delight in't,
That his prescriptions he resolv'd to write in't.
No opportunity he e'er let pass
Of writing the directions on his labels,
In dapper couplets—like Gay's Fables;
Or rather like the lines in Hudibras.
Apothecary’s verse!—and where's the treason;
'Tis simply honest dealing 5–not a crime;
When patients swallow physic without reason,
It is but fair to give a little rhyme.
He had a patient lying at death's door,
Some three miles from the town, it might be four,
To whom one evening Bolus sent an article
In pharmacy, that's call'd cathartical,
And, on the label of the stuff,
He wrote verse ;
Which one would think was clear enough,
To be well shaken.”
Next morning, early, Bolus rose,
And to the patient's house he goes
Upon his pad,
Who a vile trick of stumbling had :
It was indeed a very sorry hack;
But that's of course,
For what's expected from a horse,
With an apothecary upon his back?
Bolus arriv'd and gave a loudish tap,
Between a single and a double rap.
Knocks of this kind
Are giv'n by gentlemen who teach to dance,
By fiddlers and by opera singers:
One loud, and then a little one behind,
As if the knocker fell by chance
Out of their fingers.
The servant lets him in with dismal face,
Long as a courtier's out of place—
Portending some disaster;
John's countenance as rueful look'd and grim,
As if th' apothecary had physick'd him,
And not his master.
To jeweller's shops let your ladies repair,
For trinkets and nicknacks to give them an air;
Here living carbuncles, a score of them glows
On the big massy sides of my landlady's nose.
Old Patrick M'Dougherty, when on the fuddle,
Pulls out a segar, and looks up to her noddle;
For Dougherty swears, when he swigs a good dose,
By Marjory's firebrand, my landlady's nose.
Ye wishy-wash butter-milk drinkers so cold,
Come here, and the virtues of brandy behold;
Here's red burning Etna—a mountain of snows
Would roar down in streams from my landlady's nose.
But, Gods! when this trunk with an uplifted arm,
She grasps in the dish-clout to blow an alarm ;
Horns, trumpets, and conchs, are but screaming of
To the loud-thund'ring twang of my landlady's nose.
My landlady's nose unto me is a treasure,
A care-killing nostrum—a fountain of pleasure;
If I want for a laugh to discard all my woes,
I only look up to my landlady's nose.
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Whoe'er our stage examines, must excuse
The wondrous shifts of the dramatic Muse;
Then kindly listen, while the prologue rambles
From wit to beef, from Shakspeare to the shambles;
Divided only by one flight of stairs,
The actor swaggers, and the butcher swears'
Quick the transition when the curtain drops,
From meek Moninia's moans, to mutton chops!
While for Lothario's loss Lavinia cries,
Old women scold, and dealers d-n your eyes!
Here Juliet listens to the geute lark,
There in harsh chorus hungry buil-dogs bark;
Cleavers and scimitars give blow for blow,
And heroes bleed above, and sheep below !
While magic thunders shake the pit and box,
Rebellows to the roar the stagg'ring ox.
Cow-horns and trumpets mix their martial tones,
Kidneys and kings, mouthing and marrow-bones,
Suet and sighs, blank verse and blood abound,
And form a tragi-comedy around.
With weeping lovers dying calves complain;
Confusion reigns—chaos is come again!
Hither your steelyards, butchers, bring, to weigh
The pound of flesh Antonio's blood must pay!
Hither your knives, ye Christians clad in blue,
Bring to be whetted by the worthless Jew.
Hard is our lot, who, seldom doom'd to eat,
Cast a sheep's-eye on this forbidden meat—
Gaze on sirloins, which, all ! we cannot carve,
And in the midst of beef, of mutton—starvel
But would ye to our house in crowds repair,
Ye gen'rous captains, and ye blooming fair,
The fate of Tantalus we should not fear,
Nor pine for a repast that is so near ;
Monarchs no more would supperless remain,
Nor hungry queens for cutlets long in vain.
st k; Ab ING IN TIME. -
A buffoon at the court of Francis I. complained to
the king that a great lord threatened to murder him
for uttering some jokes about him. “If he does,"
said Francis, “ he shall be hanged in five minutes
after.” “I wish,” replied the complainant, “your
majesty would hang him five minutes before.”
Heard, by express, from officer of state,
A gracious pardon quite reverse his fate.
Unmov’d he seem’d, and to the spot close sticking,
Ne'er offers, tho' he's bid, to quit the place,
Till in the air the other fellow's kicking;
The sheriff thought that some peculiar grace,
Some Hebrew form of silent, deep devotion,
Had for a while depriv'd him of his motion.
But by the sheriff being ask'd aloud,
Why not with proper officer he went?
He answer'd thus, (surprising all the crowd,)
With eyes upon the dying Christian bent,
"I only trait amhile pefore I coes,
of Mister Catch to puy te tead man's clo'es.”