"O! Sir," reply'd a stander by, I was at Calais waiting for a wind, The moral's very easy to apply— DIALOGUE Between Harry, who had a large Library, and Dick, who had more Understanding than Books. QUOTH Harry to his friend one day, "Wou'd, Richard, I'd thy head," "What wilt thou give for't?" Dick reply'd, "The bargain's quickly made." "My head and all my books I'd give With readiness and freedom," "I'd take thy books, but with thy head Gad-zooks I cou'd not read 'em." English Chronicle. ON LOTTERIES. A LOTTERY, like a magic spell, All ranks of men bewitches; Whose beating bosoms vainly swell, With hopes of sudden riches. With hopes to gain ten thousand pounds, How many post to ruin, Life's greatest blessing, calm content, He, who intent on shadowy schemes, Unmov'd by FORTUNE'S fickle wheel, And PRUDENCE courts with fervent zeal- LINES By Sir Richard Lovelace to his Mistress, on his going to the Wars. TELL me not, sweet, I am unkind, Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, True; a new mistress now I chase, And, with a stronger faith, embrace Yet this inconstancy is such I could not love thee, dear, so much, EPIGRAM. ON IMPRISONMENT FOR Debt. OF old the Debtor, that insolvent died, A diff'rent trade enlighten'd christians drive, English Chronicle. Stuck EPIGRAM, upon the statue of the Moor which supports the Sun-dial in Clement's Inn. IN vain, poor sable son of woe, Thou seek'st the tender tear; From thee in vain with pangs they flow, From cannibals thou fled'st in vain; The first won't eat you till you're slain, The last will do't alive. Ibid. ON LELIA. HAD I Titian's skill, to trace A picture without fault or flaw, A perfect form, a perfect face, I then would Lelia's portrait draw. Or had I Milton's pow'r of song, For none but Titian's art could paint So sweet a form, a face so fair. And Milton's muse alone could tell Monthly Review. CUPID AND PSYCHE, To some married Ladies. WITH cheeks bedew'd with drops of pearl, Sad Psyche sought the grove, Where she her tresses us'd to curl, With Innocence and Love. Sweet Modesty, a rural maid, O'ertook the weeping fair; Ask'd why in loose attire she stray'd, I Cupid seek o'er hill and dale, And (what's the cause I cannot tell), |