"(Have not you read the Rights of Man, by Tom

Paine?)

Drops of compassion tremble on my eye-lids,
Ready to fall as soon as you have told your

KNIFE-GRINDER.

Pitiful story."

Story! God bless you, I have none to tell, Sir, Only last night, a-drinking at the Chequers,

This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle.

"Constables came up for to take me into Custody; they took me before the Justice; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish

Stocks, for a vagrant.

"I should be glad to drink your honour's health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence; But, for my part, I never love to meddle

With politics, Sir."

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

"I give thee sixpence! I will see thee d—'d firstWretch whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to

vengeance

Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,

spiritless outcast!"

[Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.]

REPARTEE.

LOUD bray'd an ass.-Quoth Kate, "My dear!"

To spouse, in jeering carriage, "One of your relatives I hear."

"Yes, love," says he, "by marriage."

THE TEST OF MERIT.

"Is this the man * so fam'd for wit?"
Cries Buffo, fam'd for wanting it;
"This little man, so thin and queer ?
Who'd take his Lordship for a Peer?
His eyes, indeed, have something sprightly;
But, sure, his person's far from sightly:
They praise his speeches and his jokes ;
He looks and talks like other folks."
Thus Buffo, puff'd with pride and fat,
Still vents his spleen in frothy chat;
More vers'd in butchers' meat than books,
Inquires how fat or lean one looks;
And sagely, by mechanic rules,
Deems men philosophers or fools:
His balance rais'd with air profound,
He weighs your merit-by the pound.

The Earl of Chesterfield.

* EPIGRAM.

SAY, why does Kate her charms conceal?
Why not withdraw that flowing veil

That envious decks her bonnet ?

Why? Though dress'd out in gaudy clothes,
She has no beauty to disclose:
"Tis so-depend upon it.

MARTIAL, LIB. II. Ep. 41.

YES, I submit: my Lord, you've gain'd your end; I'm now your slave-that would have been your

friend:

I'll bow, I'll cringe, be supple as your glove-
Respect-adore you-every thing but love.

EPITAPH

ON W. ELDERTON,

THE RED-NOSED BALLAD-MAKER,

[FROM CAMDEN.]

DEAD drunk here Elderton doth lie;

Dead as he is, he still is dry:

So of him it may well be said,

Here he, but not his thirst, is laid.

FOUR DAYS MISERY.

[FROM THE FRENCH.]

LAST Sunday night, I lost my steed;
Eclipse was not of better breed:

Last Monday night, I lost my cousin ;

Not one is left me of a dozen :
Last Tuesday night, I lost my wife,
The joy, the honour of my life:

Last Wednesday night, I lost my friend;
My sorrows, sure, will never end:
Can any have misfortunes worse?

I'm really sorry for my horse!

EPIGRAM.

WE men have many faults,

Poor women have but two:

There's nothing good they say,
There's nothing good they do.

....

ANOTHER.

WHEN Carlos 'tempted to be free,

Flavilla cried, "My chastity!

Know all but virgins are my foes!"

She said no more-off dropp'd her nose.

EPITAPH FOR DR. JOHNSON.

[SOAME JENYNS.]

HERE lies poor Johnson; reader, have a care,
Tread lightly, lest you rouse a sleeping bear :
Religious, moral, gen'rous, and humane,
He was-but self-sufficient, rude, and vain:
Ill-bred and overbearing in dispute;

A scholar, and a Christian-yet a brute.
Would you know all his wisdom and his folly,
His actions, sayings, mirth, and melancholy,
Boswell and Thrale, retailers of his wit,

Will tell you how he wrote, and talk'd, and cough'd and spit.

ON BLOOD'S STEALING THE CROWN.

[MARVEL]

WHEN daring Blood, his rent to have regain'd,
Upon the English diadem distrain'd,

He chose the cassock, surcingle, and gown,
The fittest mask for one who robs a crown:
But his lay pity underneath prevail'd,
And while he sav'd the Keeper's life he fail'd:
With the priest's vestments had he but on
The prelate's cruelty,, the crown had gone.