FROM THE FRENCH. Of all the men one meets about, There's none like Jack-he's everywhere: As home he took his pensive way, A JOKE VERSIFIED. "Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life, There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake— It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife.""Why, so it is, father-whose wife shall I take?" THE SURPRISE. Chloris, I swear, by all I ever swore, That from this hour I shall not love thee more."What! love no more? Oh! why this alter'd vow?" Because I can not love thee more-than now! ON Like a snuffers, this loving old dame, Though so oft she has snapp'd at the flame, ON A SQUINTING POETESS. To no one Muse does she her glance confine, ON A TUFT-HUNTER. Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard, Put mourning round thy page, Debrett, Beside his place the God of Wit, Apollo for a star he'd quit, And Love's own sister for an Earl's. Did niggard fate no peers afford, He took, of course, to peers' relations; And, rather than not sport a lord, Put up with even the last creations. Even Irish names, could he but tag'em With "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call, And, at a pinch, Lord Ballyraggum Was better than no Lord at all. Heaven grant him now some noble nook, For, rest his soul, he'd rather be Genteelly damn'd beside a Duke, THE KISS. Give me, my love, that billing kiss We tried inventions of delight. Come, gently steal my lips along, And let your lips in murmurs moveAh, nol-again-that kiss was wrongHow can you be so dull, my love? "Cease, cease!" the blushing girl replied― And in her milky arms she caught me― "How can you thus your pupil chide; You know 't was in the dark you taught me !" EPITAPH ON A WELL-KNOWN POET-(ROBERT Beneath these poppies buried deep, The bones of Bob the bard lie hid; Through every sort of verse meandering, Till fiction having done enough, To make a bard at least absurd, And now, in virtue of his crown, Dooms us, poor whigs, at once to slaughter; Poisoning us all with laurel-water. And yet at times some awkward qualms he Death, weary of so dull a writer, WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S COMMON-PLACE BOOK, Called the " Book of Follies." This journal of folly 's an emblem of me; But what book shall we find emblematic of thee? THE RABBINICAL ORIGIN OF WOMEN. They tell us that Woman was made of a rib For old Adam was fashion'd, the first of his kind, If such is the tie between women and men, For he takes to his tail, like an idiot, again, Yet, if we may judge as the fashions prevail, ANACREONTIQUE. Press the grape, and let it pour Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine! SPECULATION. Of all speculations the market holds forth, Is to buy up at the price he is worth, And then sell him at that which he sets on himself. ON BUTLER'S MONUMENT. REV. SAMUEL WESLEY. WHILE Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive, See him, when starved to death and turn'd to dust, The poet's fate is here in emblem shown- ON THE DISAPPOINTMENT OF THE WHIG ASSOCIATES OF THE PRINCE REGENT, AT NOT OBTAINING OFFICE. YE politicians, tell me, pray, CHARLES LAMB. Why thus with woe and care rent? This is the worst that you can say, Some wind has blown the wig away, TO PROFESSOR AIREY, On his marrying a beautiful woman. SIDNEY SMITH. AIREY alone has gained that double prize, His marriage-vows have drawn a mortal down. ON LORD DUDLEY AND WARD. SAMUEL ROGERS. "THEY say Ward has no heart, but I deny it; |