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Aged impotence,t believe me,

All thy fancy'd joys deceive thee,

Thine's the harlot's bought 'embrace.

L'ENVOY OF THE POET.

The soul's great bane is mental idleness:
Watch ev'ry thought, nor let the mind be

mute.

ward III who at the age of 77, was the slave of one Alice Pearce, whom he denominated the "Lady of beauty,” and in whose honour tiltings and tournaments were held in Smithfield, at which the court attended. But nothing can more pointedly display the folly of such conduct than the close of that great man's life, who was attended on his death-bed by this fascinating dame, who, finding the monarch's end fast approaching, threw aside all those fascinations which she had been in the habit of adopting to subjugate him, and, blind to every principle but that of interest, even at the trying hour of dissolution, she busied herself in tearing the jewels from off his fingers, and possessing every thing valuable that presented itself to her view.

The great and politic Elizabeth, when in her 76th year, doted on the memory of the Earl of Essex, for whom a solemn dance was given, at which Mrs. Tiffin, one of her ladies, was habited in character, and presented herself to

If temperance in youth checks rash excess,
Its sober pleasures with its years shall suit.

THE POET'S CHORUS TO FOOLS.

Come, trim the boat, row on each Rara Avis,
Crowds flock to man my Stultifera Navis.

the queen, who, pretending to be surprised at her appearance, demanded,

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"Affection," answered Mrs. Tiffin.

"Affection's false," replied the queen. Upon which the lady wooed her Majesty to dance, which, we are informed, she did most solemnly, in despite of age and the falsehood of affection.

SECTION V.

OF SUCH AS KNOW NOTHING, AND WILL LEARN NOTHING; OR OF FOOLS OPPRESSED BY THEIR

OWN FOLLY.

Though thou shouldst bray a fool in a mortar, among wheat, with a pestle, yet will not his folishness depart from him. SOLOMON.

SAY, what is this, a painted butterfly,

Or antic harlequin of motly dye,

What is't that thus disgraceth human nature?

Tis Adam's progeny in face and shape,

In port and conduct but a very ape;†

A man of fashion: vile, insipid creature!

Indeed there are too many of this description, whose painted cheeks, perfumed linen, blackened eyebrows, and stay-laced shapes, together with affected utterance, disgrace the title of manhood.

Simia quam similis, turpissima bestia, nobis.

Now tell me, ye petit maitres, do ye know your likenesses?

His speech a lisp, his gaze a vacant stare,
His walk a drawl, and listlessness his air,

While for his manhood he's the taylor's debtor, With wadded coat and wadded short clothes too, With tight-lac'd stays, that he may seem to view A killing youth-a felon hung in fetter.

What, felon! Yea; but not of common sense;
Purloiner of an idiot's impudence,

For arm'd with follyt loudly he'll bespatter;
Talk of his wench; naught else has he to say:
And fright the subjects on the king's highway,
Who Beth'lem's guest ‡ believe him by his
chatter.

Not only in conversation do these hermaphrodites prove that ex nihilo nihil fit, they have even sometimes the effrontery to set themselves up for men of literature, when they never fail to verify the line of Horace.

Bootum in crasso jurares aëre natum.

I should advise a revision of the code of laws, instituted for the suppression of public nuisances; among the foremost of which ought certainly to be included these pests of society, whom I would render indictable by men of common sense, subjecting them to the public lash of the ridicule they so richly deserve.

At night the man of ton, prepar'd for rout,
With op'ra hat and folly tinsell'd out,

Determin'd is thro' thick and thin to dash on, Splutters forth nonsense, which, with kindred elves,

Passes for wit; because they are themselves Yoke fellowst all, and people of high fashion.‡

There is nothing very wonderful in this, when we ask the simple question, and hear its solution, Quare facit opium dormire? Quia in eo est virtus dormitiva.

As a convincing proof that the most trivial circumstances will agitate these things-these men of straw, the following stanzas are founded on absolute fact, the despairing youth being one of our refined fashionable literati.

In circles of fashion Sir Saunter was known;
His manners, in all things, were purely his own;
He always was busy with nothing to do,
Wou'd fret if his buckle sat ill on his shoe;
Was nervous and dying, good natur'd and easy,
And prattled soft nothing, in order to please ye.

It happ'd on a time, 'twas at Chiswick, they say,
A Dutchess gave breakfast at five in the day.
Sir Saunter, of course, 'mid the foremost was seen,
To simper and saunter with all on the green,

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