'Hold!' Cupid cries, 'for Love's, for Pity's sake; You'll strangle Beauty, and my bowstring break.'

In altering thus and shortening his oration, Sure the Reporters do Lord Flimsy wrong; It well may fill his Lordship with vexation, When he has toil'd so hard to make it long.

'I've writ an epigram;--here, read it, do.-- The critics praise it highly:--what think you?'

"I don't much like it." 'No! 'tis very fine.'

"It may be to your taste--'tis not to mine."

'I say 'tis finely pointed.' "Well! so be it!-- The point may be too fine for me to see it."

'Then, let me tell you, Sir, you must be blind.'

"Many more like me I'm afraid you'll find."

Wise radicals! to make it bear more fruit, They fain would tear the tree up by the root.

Young trees, we know, may sometimes thrive transplanted, But old ones can't;--'tis by all gardeners granted.

'Twill die;--and when the good old tree is dead, What sort of tree, pray, will they plant instead?

The Squire has long imagined that his son Is deeply studying c.o.ke and Lyttelton.

They meet.--'Dear Tom! to see you gives me joy.-- How get you on in Law? my clever boy!

In practice too?--But Tom, what bills you draw!

Expensive work this studying of the law!'

The sly young Templar gulls his easy Sire:-- "O! I get on, Sir, to my heart's desire; In chamber-practice I have much to do."-- His answer--in a certain sense--is true.

To move her lover, a coquetish Miss Began to sob, pretending she should faint;-- Her maid restored her straight by whispering this: 'I fear, my lady, you forget your paint.'

ON THE MANY VIOLENT DISPUTES AMONG THE PREACHERS OF THE GOSPEL.

The labourers in the vineyard toil (So numerous are their creeds) Far less to cultivate the soil, Than break each others' heads.

'Write epigrams! why, Sir, there's nothing in it.

I would be bound--the merest scribbler could-- To write one in a minute.'

No doubt you could--but then there would Indeed, be nothing in it.

The ambitious rage of Russia nought controls, With her vast empire she'd unite the Poles.

ON HEARING A CLERGYMAN PREACH A DULL SERMON IN A LOUD, SHRILL VOICE.

Still, still his bell-like voice rings through my head; Yet not one bright thought cheers my mental view; O! would that I were deaf, asleep, or dead!

Ye marble statues! how I envy you!

To hear him preach the Methodistic creed, What eager crowds to Ranter's chapel speed!

His eloquence the harden'd sinner frightens; Like heaven itself--says Fame, he thunders, lightens.

I go to hear him;--Fame has made a blunder;-- I see no lightning, though I hear the thunder.

For flowery sermons Doctor Drudge Of preachers at the top is;-- If from their influence we may judge, His flowers are only poppies.

Sir! you're both fool and knave!--to Frank, Blunt cries-- I know I am, Sir, Frank to Blunt replies:-- Now, in self-knowledge if all knowledge lies, A fool, like Frank, must be extremely wise!

Vice is a mouse-trap, pleasure is the bait, Like mice, enticing mortals to their fate; And of this truth experience leaves no doubt;-- 'Tis far more easy to get in than out.

Old maids their spleen on marriage vent;-- The reason would you know?

'Tis not, that others are made wives, But that they can't be so.

How grave he looks! how mighty wise!-- He seems Minerva's sacred bird:-- He speaks! our ears refute our eyes-- The cackling of a goose is heard.

How came that Jew, deform'd and old, To wed the youthful, fair Coquette?-- Ben had a purse well-stored with gold!

He caught her in't;--'twas Hymen's net!

Flirtilla's teeth, well-form'd and white, Were Hymen's pincers, and could bite!

When the Royal Exchange to the flames fell a prey, All the Monarchs and Queens from their niches were thrown; Lackaday! on the pavement in fragments they lay, Every one except Charley the Second alone.

Strange event! O my Muse! to blind mortals below Clear this mystery which none but immortals can know.

"Cytherea and Momus pray'd Vulcan to spare The blithe, amorous King:--Vulcan granted their prayer."

H. MERRIDEW, PRINTER, COVENTRY.