Thrice twenty years have roll’d away

Since Flavia first beheld the day;

Yet Flavia thinks she still is fair,

And young, and fresh, and debonaire.

At each new ball behold the dame,

(Though the last night has made her lame,)

On lightly-limping toe advance

To lead the gay and airy dance;

Smiling rich love, like Beauty’s Queen,

When on a sign-post painting seen;

Like Venus, too, in loose attire

She comes to raise unholy fire;—

Cobweb attire, thro’ which we see

Hogarth’s own lines of symmetry,

If these are any where declar’d

To be in carrots, cut and par’d.

Down her bare bosom careless hang

Locks, such as poet never sang;

Even old Homer could not say

How beautiful, how thin and grey.

Her cheeks are like the blushless rose,

Which sparing in the hedge-row grows,

(When sprinkled with a little dust,

It bears a light and brownish crust.)

Her teeth, with what shall I compare?

With pearls, for yell’wish pearls there are;

Her lips, how shall I tell their hue?

It seems a blended black and blue;

No coral of such colour’s seen,

No lip so sweet, so dried, so lean;

Not e’en Apelles’ pencil vies

With the dimm’d lustre of her eyes;

Which, blinking, say they could destroy,

Like Helena’s, another Troy.

But, for her reputation’s sake

No step impure this dame would take:

Highly she rev’rences decorum,

Which oft’ she preaches o’er her jorum;Open note a01-rota This Lady used to drink largely of a vulgar mixture called Mug.

And would not, though to fetes she goes,

And balls, and masks, and raree-shows,

For millions have it understood,

E’en that she’d change her widowhood;

Much less a single wish conceal,

That modesty should not reveal.

’Tis but to please her various friends,

That thus she daily condescends

To mingle with the festive throng,

In merry dance, or jocund song.

Mirth finds no entrance in her breast

Which Melancholy’s home’s confess’d.—

So sayeth she, but well I ween,

Her roguish looks and wanton mien

Bespeak a heart that pants to prove,

At sixty, the Delights of Love.

Hearing that you wish to marry the sweet

Jenny, but are in doubt of being able

(Having only a lieutenancy and very little money)

To put a clean cloth ev’ry day on your table;

And that you are under some hesitation on account

Of your eyes,

Being able to see only with one, and their not

Exactly matching in colour or size,

I take the liberty to offer my thoughts on the

Occasion,

Which, I dare say, will determine you to ask her

Without farther deliberation:

It is certainly a great pity your eyes do not

Match;

And I wonder you don’t wear, over the blind

One, a green patch;

But never mind your eyes when your legs

Are so stout;

A stout leg’s what most folks make a great

Pother about.—

Tho’, on recollection, I’m not quite sure, that

Yours would prove so good,

Your walk’s so stiff, it is not clear to me, but

You’ve broke the bones and put in a piece of wood.

However, they are well enough for use; and

Your shoulders are broad enough

To carry the sweet Jenny where the roads

Are rough;

When, her two or three thousand gold guineas

Expended,

You’ve not got wherewith to have the Buggy

Mended.

Then if you should not be able to see

Company, your education has been so good,

That, in retirement, it will prove, to the sweet

Jenny, the most delicious food;

It will amply atone for ev’ry want or

Deficiency,

And be a charming solace, to her, in ev’ry

Exigency.

You may amuse her with the secrets of all

Your old friends;

Acquaint her with the beginnings of your

Amours and the ends.

Tell her the pretty stories of Thumb and

The Giant-killer;

Shewing her that the one was a little fellow,

And the other a blood-spiller

And thus you may beguile the time, with

A few kisses sweet,

When you happen to be so unlucky as to

Have nothing to eat;

And any day that good luck sends you a bit or two,

You may down on your knees and bless,

Your stars that you’ve something better to do;

So I advise you, if you wish to marry the sweet

Jenny, to make haste,

And get her to name an early day for the

Wedding-feast:

Tho’ she might like to have a little more

Of her conquests said,

She must be in some fear at forty, of

Dying an old Maid;

And being in this awkward predicament,

And not having many lovers to choose,

It is very likely she may consent to

Being fasten’d with you in the noose.

You ask, my dear Madam that I may indite

The cause of our truly ridiculous fright.

’Twas this—When a few hundred yards from your door

We met my Lord D. in his landau and four;

And Sir Wyatt, in making a most humble bow,

At once lost his hat, and drove over a sow;

—The poor squeaking animal dragg’d from our sight;

The whip handed back, and himself set upright,

We were, not without fear, moving forward again

When two horsemen came galloping out of the lane

That leads to Colegreen (they were both of the gown,

And two of the very first bucks in the town);

They would pass on each side, though the road was so narrow

(Not a carriage-length more than the hop of a sparrow)

And had Jehu not tightly our Pegasus rein’d,

And a central line most minutely maintain’d,

The parsons, their horses, and all of us might,

Heav’n knows, have been left in a terrible plight;

But by guiding with infinite caution the beast,

And not moving to right, or to left, in the least,

We escap’d all misfortune, and boldly got through.

Oh, the wonderful skill of Sir Wyatt Jehu!

Say no more of your Cowpers or Townsends,Open note a05-rota The late Earl of Cowper, and Lord John Townsend,—both then at Hertford. —don’t stare,

For Sir Wyatt’s the man that can drive to a hair.

“Time on swiftest pinions flies,”

Clericus to Delia cries;

“Let’s enjoy the fleeting hour,

While it yet is in our pow’r;

Taste of ev’ry bliss we may,

Sing and dance, and laugh, and play;

Live to love, each care lay by,

For we know not when we die.”

Lovely Delia quick replies,

“‘Time irreparably flies;’

Let us then improve each hour

While it yet is in our pow’r;

Looking on our lives with shame.

Let us turn to Jesus’ name,

To the blessed Gospel fly,

For we know not when we die.”

’Tis thine, oh, gen’rous Bebb, to feel

Each mortal’s sorrows, and to heal!

No wretch forlorn or lost appears

But thy kind hand in bounty rears;

No widow’s tears are dropp’d in vain,

No orphan breathes its artless strain

Unpitied, where thou art.—All bless

Thy goodness, and their love confess;

All voices, in one peal, combine

To own thy origin divine!

I sent for my Doctor.— “Dear Doctor, said I,

I fain for my case would a remedy try;

Perhaps you may find out the cause of my pain,

Which to conquer, alas, I have struggl’d in vain!”

“What symptoms attend your disorder?” he said,

“It seems to be only a cold in the head.”

Then feeling my pulse he look’d grave, and ask’d why

“He should hear at so trifling a matter, a sigh?”

“I sigh,” I replied, “without knowing at what;

But tell me, dear Sir, if relief can be got;

Indeed it is not of a cold I complain,

I fear that a fever is lodg’d in my brain;

My strength is quite gone, and my spirits are fled,

In short, I am only half-living, half-dead.”

The good Doctor paus’d――the door open’d, and who

Should enter but Colin――long lost to my view:

The fever, the languor, the pains I endur’d,

At this happy arrival were instantly cur’d;

And the Doctor perceiving me not quite half-dead,

Took his leave, with a very arch shake of the head.

Ah, happy Bird, teach me thy art,

That I may touch his heart,

And be caress’d like thee!

Say how thou camest to be prest

So closely to his breast;

So fondly seated on his knee;

How did’st thou of the balmy dew

That dwells upon his lip,

Tell me, Ah, tell me, true,

Presume to sip?

Ah, happy Bird, teach me thy art,

That I may touch his heart,

And be caress’d like thee!

Else there’s no hope for me,

And I must fly to death, from misery.

“Have mercy on me, Lord, the woman cries,

Most grievously diseased my daughter lies:

Oh, Lord, thou son of David, hear my plaint,

E’re, by a devil torn, my daughter faint.”

Our Lord, in silence, stood:—his servantsOpen note a06-rota The Apostles. say,

“She cryeth after us, send her away,

Lord, we beseech thee.” Jesus then replied,

“Know ye not Israel’s sheep I’m sent to guide?

Israel’s lost sheep!” Again the woman came,

Saying, “Lord help me; praised be thy name.”

“It is not meet,” he said, “to cast the bread

To dogs with which the children should be fed.

Truth, Lord, yet of the crumbs the dogs do eat

Which fall from table at their Master’s feet.――

Great is thy faith, oh, Woman:—unto thee,

E’en be it as thou wilt; thy daughter, see,

(Freed from the evil spirit’s tort’ring pow’r)

Revives, and is made whole this very hour.”

“I’d give worlds to discover, said Damon, one day,

To Palemon, the charming retreat

Of good-nature, good sense, affability—say,

Where their dwelling I’m likely to meet?

I have search’d ev’ry place, but I no where can find

Any woman that pleases, in all things, my mind.”

For a moment reflecting, Palemon replied,

“I believe I can point out the place—

In a house not far off, doth Serena reside—

In whose bosom lives every grace.”

They together went forth, and were presently seen

In a Harley-Street mansion—’tis number nineteen.

Art, with some critics, went to view

The other day, a friend or two

At Kirkby’s house—“Good heav’ns, cried one,

How wretchedly this portrait’s done!”

“There’s not a line of beauty here!”

Remarked another with a sneer

“No, nor a touch of mine, said Art,

Can I observe, in any part;

How dares this mushroom raise his head;

Are Hoppner, Lawrence, Beechey, dead?”

Nature, who heard the ill-aimed satire,

Came forward, to set right the matter;

“This ‘mushroom,’ is my child,” she cried,

“My happiest work, my greatest pride:

In less’ning him you hurt my name—

Nature, and Kirkby, are the same.”

A certain king, desirous to account

With all his household servants, and the amount

Of ev’ry debt to learn, begins with one,

Who, through ten thousand talents quick had run,

Unable to refund the trust,—His Lord

To sell his substance gave immediate word,

His wife, his children, and himself withal!

The servant then, “Lord, on my knees I fall,

Imploring mercy, yet a little stay

And ev’ry talent faithfully I’ll pay:”

The king, with pity mov’d, thus spoke: “Be free;

Depart in peace; thy debt’s forgiven thee!”

Releas’d, at once the bounty he forgets,

With fiend-like spite his fellow man besets,

And seizes, as a rav’nous wolf his prey,

Vocif’rating, “The pence thou ow’st me, pay;”

Th’ affrighted man before him prostrate falls,

And on his mercy loud for pity calls;

Begs patience, yet a little longer stay,

And promises each penny to repay:

But he, ungrateful, cruel, and unjust,

Relentless heard, and into prison thrust

His suppliant fellow servant, there to dwell

Until the utmost farthing he could tell.

From man to man the matter quickly run,

And last, the king is told of what was done;

The culprit, then, he summon’d to appear;

And now his awful sentence dooms to hear:

To him his Lord; “So soon dost thou forget

That I forgave the all thy weighty debt,

Because thou asked’st me, and should’st not thou,

On thy poor fellow servant’s lowly bow,

Have had compassion on him, e’en as I

Had pity upon thee! hence, monster, fly,

And tort’ring devils shall thy steps pursue

Until thou payest me my utmost due.”

To trace fair Derby’s charms what pen shall try,

(What pencil paints the colours of the sky?)

A sea-born Venus’ form with features mild,

And smiling winning graces, might be styl’d

A portrait; but how very faint to shew

That heav’nly mind where purest virtues glow!

Where learning, wit, and wisdom, are combin’d

With clearest judgment and a taste refin’d:

Poets in vain, each Muse might count to bring

Her limpid draughts from the Piërian spring;

“The warmest fancy in the finest dress

Of language” could not Derby’s charms express:

Too daring the attempt: let then my lay

This truth alone to Derby’s ear convey,

That heav’n, by special mandate, sent her here,

“From ev’ry eye, to wipe off ev’ry tear.”

Rev’rend Sir, we conceive it our duty to say,

That we really were shock’d at your sermon, to-day;

And, unless in your preachments you very much mend,

We can not, in conscience, church-service attend.

You painted Religion as such a sweet creature,

So graceful in shape, and so beauteous in feature,

Describ’d, in such tints, her profusion of charms

That the old stupid clerk could have flown to her arms.

E’en an anchorite could not have heard you, unmov’d;

And, though sworn to devotion, Love’s vot’ry had prov’d.

Your warm picture the embers in Simberkin’s heart,

Quick rekindled to flame, that consum’d ev’ry part:

And there’s poor little Clodpoll, who never, till now,

Dream’d of love, is bewitch’d by brown Mog, of the plough;

Who, unluckily threw (while you spoke) a sweet smile

From the bench, where she sat, that is plac’d in the aisle.

Then your versesOpen note a07-rota From Pope’s Eloisa. we thought very strange for a sermon,

And to half who were present were high Dutch, or German;

And the storyOpen note a08-rota Of an Old Lady’s distribution of her trinkets. you told, all the parish agree,

Would just suit Mrs. Chatterbox, over her tea.—

To be brief, rev’rend Sir, ’twas resolv’d, at the door,

That this once-thronged church we would visit no more,

Till a change in your way should be striking throughout,

And you seem to know something of what you’re about.

As the lost mariner, with anxious eye,

Scans the horizon, and the doubtful sky

Mistaking for some distant friendly shore,

Braves the rough waves, and thinks his troubles o’er;

Strains ev’ry nerve the promis’d rest to gain,

But finds, at last, his hopes and labour vain;—

So I, immers’d in sorrows’ darksome night,

Beheld a picture of returning light;

In distance soften’d all my cares appear’d,

And smiling loves in front their faces rear’d;

But ah! at my approach, the colours fade;

And the bright vision sinks in thickest shade!

When wont to range the fragrant groves and fields,

And taste the teeming sweets that nature yields,

Softly to warble forth love’s tender tale

On sunny hillock or in shady dale,

And gaily strain thy downy little throat

To charm us with thy liquid melting, note—

The song of gladness! Oh, inhuman joy!

To make thee captive, and such bliss destroy!

Sweet plaintive songster, could I set thee free,

And give thee back dear smiling liberty,

On airy wing thou quick should’st mount the sky:

But, ah, a stranger, whither would’st thou fly?

Thy once fond friends would chase thee through the air,

And for their nests thy pretty feathers tear;

To peck and scoff, whole tribes of birds would hie,

And thou, poor flutt’rer, in an hour would’st die.

The blessed word of God to all is giv’n,

Descending, in soft genial show’rs, from heav’n.

But falls in diff’rent soils. Hence comes it, then,

That we perceive its diff’rent growth in men.

Some quite neglect the sense, and only hear

A sound of something on their listless ear,

Which, as it enters, passes quick away;

So shut they out the beams of op’ning day.

Then is the time for Satan, who with wiles

Detestable, and horrid treach’rous smiles,

Leads on the heedless wretch, till conquer’d quite,

Too late, from hell, he owns the glorious light.

This is the seed that falls by the way-side,

Which the inhabitants of air divide.

Verse the 20th and 21st.

Others, with joy, receive th’ enliv’ning word,

And, for a time, embrace our dying lord,

As the fond mother folds within her arms

The first-born of her love in infant charms;

But, if severe affliction haply comes,

If storms, or light’nings, blast their smiling homes,

If friends perfidious or ungrateful prove,

And wintry hate succeeds their spring of love,

If death’s stern pow’r some tender tie shall seize,

Or fate bring on themselves some dire disease,

Or persecution for the word of God,

They shrink, unable to sustain the rod,

And doubt if God is gracious, thus to show

So little pity for his world below;—

And this is what we find in stony ground,

Which, wanting depth of earth, no root has found

It quickly springs, but quickly dies away,

Scorch’d by the sun’s intense meridian ray.

Verse 22.

Some men again there are, who would attend.

If av’rice did not all their pow’r suspend,

But, lost in wordly cares, they never heed

That living death must dying life succeed;—

Here we observe what’s scatter’d amongst briers,

And chok’d by fierce insatiable desires.

Verse 23.

Those who the word in spirit understand.

And bless, howe’er severe, the chast’ning hand:

Which, in its bounty, scourges ev’ry son,

Have made their calling sure, the battle won,

Escap’d the subtle serpent’s strongest force,

And may, undauntedly, pursue their course;—

And here the seed prolific we behold,

Which bears, and brings forth fruit an hundred fold.

Beneath a tree, in an umbrageous wood,

Whetting his teeth, and waiting for his food,

(Some hapless prey) a Lynx, reclin’d, espied,

Half-buried in a hillock, by his side,

An inert mole, who yet itself had fram’d

This little shelter. “Sure, the Lynx exclaim’d,

To thee, great Jupiter is most unkind,

Thus all thy powers in living death to bind;

Holding from thee the cheering light of heav’n,

To all creation else so freely giv’n.

I pity thee, poor wretch; ’twere service shewn,

Most sure, to give thee death at once.” “I own,”

Replied the Mole, “your kindnesses are great,

But I am quite contented with my state;

I ask not sight to live within the earth,

Nor better pow’rs; and at m’ ignoble birth

I grieve not;—for ’tis Jupiter directs

In wisdom, and in wisdom all protects.

He best the proper distribution knows

Of ev’ry gift his providence bestows.

’Tis true, indeed, I want your piercing eyes,

But I’ve an ear which well this want supplies――

Hark, for a proof, I now am warn’d to fly,

By a small whizzing noise I hear on high,

Thus I escape the danger of this spot.”

So saying, in his little earthy cot

He slunk;—while from a hunter’s arm, a dart

Pierc’d the quick-sighted taunter to the heart.

“Now that old captious Lovegain’s dead,

Cries Julia, Claudius, we may wed;

No obstacle can damp our bliss,

No friends condemn the lawful kiss.”

“Excuse me, Julia,” he replies,

“’Tis time that we should both grow wise.

What, would you have me play the boy,

And risk my honor for a toy?

A brittle toy! ah, who could say

I should possess it for a day?

An hour might rob me of your heart,

And fix in mine eternal smart:

An hour might on my temples place

The signals of our joint disgrace.

If, Julia, you had never prov’d

So careless, I should still have lov’d;

Have sought you for my gentle bride,

And flown from all the world beside

To your soft bosom, there to place

My hopes of happiness and grace.

Perhaps you’ll say ‘no law could bind

Your heart to him who prov’d unkind;’

Not only so, but most unjust,

Who could betray a public trust;

Defraud his wife, his children, friends,

Adopt all means to gain his ends.

’Tis true, no law could force your love;

But must you, then, the wanton prove?

Because your husband was to blame

Are you to lose all sense of shame?

Who will your children’s morals guard,

While you play so unsafe a card?

How would you like to be their scorn?

To hear them wish they’d ne’er been born

To wretchedness, to shame, disgrace;

Which still must run through all their race?

Think, Julia, then, ’e’re ’tis too late,

Think of this miserable state!

And if true pleasures you would know,

Practise the virtues whence they flow;—

These pleasures only can endure,

And future peace and bliss secure.”

We hereby confess that our verses were writ,

(And with shame to ourselves) in a splenetic fit,

But not with the smallest intent to deride

A council where wisdom and justice preside;

If offence we have giv’n, we pardon implore,

And promise to err in like manner no more.

We earnestly hope the pack-saddles mayn’t pinch;

But, at all events, trust that your worships won’t wince,

As a part of the weight will be soon off your backs,

And you’ll have but the saddles without any packs.Open note a10-rota It was presumed, that the money overcharged would be ordered to be refunded.

While lofty bards of ancient battles sing,

Be mine th’ attempt, on less aspiring wing,

Not much assisted by the Muse, to write

The exploits of La Mancha’s famous knight:

What thund’ring foes the warrior Don o’ercame,

And what his chubby Squire, of punning fame;

Fir’d with accounts of most heroick deeds,

Of flaming errant-knights on flaming steeds,

His home no longer could afford him rest;

Mars had with carnage fill’d his throbbing breast:

Down therefore from its shelf with haste was torn

The armour which his ancestry had worn;

This armour, that for ages had lain by

Mouldy and rusty, with much industry

The Knight new furbish’d; and with lance and shield,

And helmet mended, sallied to the field;

Mounted on Rozinanté, so he nam’d

His broken-winded horse, half blind and lam’d.

Meanwhile a craggy rock Æneas scales,

And scans th’ horizon, if perchance the sails

Of Capys or Antheus he may spy;

Or Caicus’ high deck should meet his eye:

His eye, alas, no Phrygian bark beholds;

But o’er the grassy valley as it rolls,

Three stately stags appear upon the shore;

Eager he takes the bow Achates bore,

And first the leaders scatters, bearing high

Their thickly-branching horns, then quickly fly

The close-embodied herd; (now through the wood,

With winged arrows bent on death pursu’d;)

Nor ceases he, till sev’n huge deer are slain,

The number of his vessels on the main:

Then seeks the port, and ’mongst his frends he shares

In equal parts the spoil, and wine prepares

Which good Acestes sent, in ample store,

On board the ships, from the Trinacrian shore;

And thus their spirits cheers with soft essay:

“My fellow suff’rers, sink not in dismay,

Severer ills than these have been our fate,

To these, too, Jove will grant a happy date:

When Sylla’s coasts we have, regardless, tried,

And the inhuman Cyclops’ rage defied,

Let us not shrink—the day will surely come

When we shall find again a peaceful home;—

In Latium we shall yet recount, with joy,

Our present woes,—and there rebuild our Troy.”

Thus spoke, in smiles, the chief, though ill at rest,

For grief, immeasurable, fill’d his breast.

The Trojans now, in haste, the meal prepare,

Their bleeding victims are at once laid bare;

Stripp’d from the ribs the reeking hides are seen,

And all the vitals are expos’d within;

Some into parts divide the flesh, with care,

And spit the quiv’ring limbs, and fires prepare,

While others place in order on the shore,

The brazen cauldrons to contain their store.

Then rang’d along the grass, they freely dine,

On fattest ven’son, and delicious wine:

The tables clear’d, ’twixt hope and fear they speak,

Dubious, if ’mongst the living they may seek

Their lost companions, or if Jove ordains

Th’ unanswer’d Vale,Open note a11-rota
“Vale.” This is an allusion to the ancient custom of calling upon the dead, which was the last
ceremony performed in funeral obsequies, as appears from several passages in the Æneid. After the body
was interred, the friends three times called aloud upon the deceased by his name, and after thrice repeating
the word Vale, as the last farewel, they departed. end of all their pains.