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Ben Jonson.

Behold," says Foote, "the thing's made out,
For there is one pound one."

"I wonder not," says Quin, "that thought Should in your head be found,

Since that's the way your debts to pay,

One shilling in the pound!"

T. W. CROKER.

LXXVIII.

ON BEN JONSON.

THOU hadst the wreath before, now take the tree;

That henceforth none be laurel crown'd but thee.

LXXIX.

LOTS.

HERRICK.

LEARN this of me, where'er thy lot doth fall,

Short lot or not, to be content with all.

HERRICK.

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LXXX.

UPON SHEWBREAD.

LAST night thou didst invite me home to eate, And shew'st me there much plate, but little meate. Prithee, when next thou do'st invite, barre state, And give me meate, or give me else thy plate.

HERRICK.

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Epigram.

LXXXI.

UPON ROOK.

Rook, he sells feathers, yet he still doth crie
Fie on this pride, this female vanitie,

Thus, tho' the Rook do's raile against the sin,
He loves the gain that vanity brings in.

HERRICK.

LXXXII.

MAN knows when first he ships himself, but he
Never can tell where shall his landing be.

HERRICK.

LXXXIII.

EPIGRAM.

QUOD PETIS, HIC EST.

No plate had John and Joan to hoard,
Plain folk in humble plight;

One only tankard crown'd their board,
And that was filled each night;

Along whose inner bottom sketch'd,
In pride of chubby grace,

Some rude engraver's hand had etch'd
A baby angel's face.

Epigram.

John swallowed first a moderate sup,
But Joan was not like John:

For when her lips once touched the cup,
She swill'd till all was gone.

John often urged her to drink fair,
But she ne'er chang'd a jot;
She lov'd to see the angel there,
And therefore drain'd the pot.

When John found all remonstrance vain,
Another card he play'd;

And where the angel stood so plain,

He got a fiend portray'd.

Joan saw the horns, Joan saw the tail,
Yet Joan as stoutly quaff'd;
And ever, when she seized her ale,
She clear'd it at a draught.

John star'd, with wonder petrified ;
His hair stood on his pate:

And "why dost guzzle now," he cried,
"At this enormous rate?"

"Oh, John," she said, "am I to blame? I can't in conscience stop;

For sure 'twould be a burning shame

To leave the devil a drop!"

S. BISHOP, 1760.

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THE seeds of treason choake up as they spring:
He acts the crime that gives it cherishing.

HERRICK.

LXXXVI.

LOVE IS BLIND.

WHAT I fancy I approve,
No dislike is there in love.
Be my mistress short or tall,
And distorted then with all;
Be she likewise one of those
That an acre hath of nose;

Esthetics.

Be her forehead and her eyes
Full of incongruities;

Be her cheeks so shallow too

As to shew her tongue wag through;
Be her lips ill hung or set,

And her grinders black as jet,

Hath she thinne hair, hath she none,
She's to me a paragon!

HERRICK.

LXXXVII.

You show us, Rome was glorious, not profuse,
And pompous buildings once were things of use,
Yet shall (my Lord) your just, your noble rules,
Fill half the land with imitating fools;

Who random drawings from your sheets shall take,
And of one beauty many blunders make :
Load some vain church with old theatric state,
Turn arcs of triumph to a garden gate;
Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all

On some patched doghole eked with ends of wall;
Then clap four slices of pilaster on 't,

That, lac'd with bits of rustic, makes a front.
Shall call the wind through long arcades to roar,

Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door,
Conscious they act a true Palladian part,
And if they starve, they starve by rules of art!

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POPE.