ON BEN JONSON'S BUST,

SET UP IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, WITH THE BUTTONS ON THE WRONG SIDE OF HIS COAT.

[BY THE REV. SAMUEL WESLEY.]

O rare Ben Jonson! What, a turncoat grown!
Thou ne'er wert such till thou wert clad in stone:
When time thy coat, thy only coat, impairs,
Thou❜lt find a patron in a hundred years;
Then let not this mistake disturb thy sprite,
Another age shall set thy buttons right.

LACONIC EPITAPH,

INSCRIBED ON THE TOMB OF DR. FULLER, OF OXFORD.

HERE lies Fuller's earth.

WRITTEN ON THE STATUE OF APOLLO,
CROWNING MERIT.

MERIT, if thou'rt bless'd with riches,
For God's sake, buy a pair of breeches,
And give them to thy naked brother;
For one good turn deserves another.

THE DEVOTEE.

OLD Carlos, wishing for an heir,
To ev'ry Saint preferr'd his pray'r;
And, leaving his fair wife at home,
Resolv'd, a pilgrim, far to roam.
Now zealously, St. James to please,
He pass'd the distant Pyrennees;

Now climb'd the Alps, immers'd in snow,
Before St. Peter's shrine to bow:

Passing the Adriatic sea,

Before our Lady bow'd the knee;
Now traversing the vasty brine,
Visits the holy Palestine;

Now on a camel's back stuck fast,
Arabia's scorching sands he pass'd;
To Sinai's mount his course he bends,
And good St. Catherine's fane ascends:
How did each gracious Saint repay
This long and pious voyage? say:
Why Carlos found-how great his joy!-
His wife safe suckling her third boy.

EPITAPH ON WILLIAM WILLIAMS.

HERE lies the body of W. W.

Who never more will trouble you,

trouble you,

EPITAPH.

OH! reader, if that thou canst read,
Look down upon this stone;

Death is a man, do all we can,

That never spareth none.

ANOTHER.

HERE lies my wife, without bed or blanket, But dead as a door-nail-God be thanked!

EPITAPH IN HERTFORD CHURCH-YARD.

WOMAN.

GRIEVE not for me, my husband dear,
I am not dead, but sleepeth here;
With patience wait, prepare to die,
And in a short time you'll come to I.

MAN.

I am not griev'd, my dearest life;
Sleep on, I've got another wife:
Therefore I cannot come to thee,

For I must go to bed to she.

THE LOVER'S LAMENTATION.

[The following admirable Burlesque of the German Pantomimical Tragi-Comedy is extracted from the Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin]

THE ROVERS;

A TRAGEDY.

SCENE, A prison-ROGERO in chains.

SONG.

WHENE'ER with haggard eyes I view
The dungeon that I'm rotting in,
I think on those companions true
Who studied with me at the U-

niversity of Gottingen.

[Weeps, and pulls out a handkerchief, with which he wipes his eyes.—Gazing tenderly, he proceeds.]

Sweet kerchief, chequ'd with heav'nly blue,

Which once my love sat knotting in;
Alas! Matilda then was true;

At least I thought so at the U

niversity of Gottingen.

[At the conclusion of this stanza he clanks his chains in concert.]

Barbs, barbs, alas! how swift ye flew,

Her neat post-waggon trotting in;
Ye bore Matilda from my view,
Forlorn I languish'd at the U-

niversity of Gottingen.

This faded form, this pallid hue,
This blood my veins is clotting in;
My years are many; they were few
When first I enter'd at the U-

niversity of Gottingen.

There first for thee my passion grew,
Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen!
'Thou wast the daughter of my Tu-

tor, Law Professor, at the U

niversity of Gottingen.

Sun, moon, and thou, vain world, adieu!
That Kings and Priests are plotting in;
Here doom'd to starve on water-gru-

el, never shall I see the U

niversity of Gottingen.

ANECDOTE OF MARGARET DE VALOIS.

THIS lady, who understood the Latin language, exclaimed, on seeing a poor man reposing on a hay-stack,

Pauper ubique jacet.

To which the man, to her astonishment, replied,

In thalamis hac nocte tuis regina jacerem,

Si verum hoc esset, pauper ubique jacet,