Ephibol on My Dear Love
Isabella

HERE lies sweet Isabell in bed,

With a night-cap on her head;
Her skin is soft, her face is fair,
And she has very pretty hair;
She and I in bed lie nice,
And undisturbed by rats and mice;
She is disgusted with Mr. Worgan,
Though he plays upon the organ.
Her nails are neat, her teeth are white,
Her eyes are very, very bright;
In a conspicuous town she lives,
And to the poor her money gives;
Here ends sweet Isabella's story,
And may it be much to her glory.

Sonnet to a Monkey

O

LIVELY, O most charming pug,

Thy graceful air, and heavenly mug;

The beauties of his mind do shine,

And every bit is shaped and fine.
Your teeth are whiter than the snow,
You're a great buck, you're a great beau;
Your eyes are of so nice a shape,
More like a Christian's than an ape;
Your cheek is like the rose's blume,
Your hair is like the raven's plume;
His nose's cast is of the Roman,
He is a very pretty woman.
I could not get a rhyme for Roman,
So was obliged to call him woman.

Marjorie Fleming.

OLD-FASHIONED BOYS

Going into Breeches

OY to Philip!-he this day

Joy

Has his long coats cast away,
And (the childish season gone)
Puts the manly breeches on.
Officer on gay parade,

Red-coat in his first cockade,
Bridegroom in his wedding trim,
Birthday beau surpassing him,
Never did with conscious gait
Strut about in half the state,
Or the pride (yet free from sin)
Of my little mannikin:

Never was there pride, or bliss,

Half so rational as his.

Sashes, frocks, to those that need 'em-
Philip's limbs have got their freedom:
He can run, or he can ride,
And do twenty things beside,
Which his petticoats forbad:
Is he not a happy lad?

Now he's under other banners,

He must leave his former manners;

Bid adieu to female games,