Nor bear so much anguish;
But, mad with his love,
To a precipice goes,
Where a leap from above
Would soon finish his woes.

When in rage he came there,
Beholding how steep
The sides did appear,

And the bottom how deep;
His torments projecting,
And sadly reflecting

That a lover forsaken

A new love may get,

But a neck, when once broken,

Can never be set;

And that he could die
Whenever he would,
But that he could live
But as long as he could :-
How grievous soever
The torment might grow,
He scorned to endeavour
To finish it so.

But bold, unconcerned
At thoughts of the pain,
He calmly returned
To his cottage again.

MATTHEW PRIOR.

[Born in 1664, died in 1721. His father was a joiner in London; but Matthew, under the patronage of the Earl of Dorset, was even in boyhood brought into a higher social sphere, and he soon became a public personage of consequence, deep in the diplomatic machinations of the time, as well as a successful poet of the lighter kind. Beginning as a Whig, he turned into a Tory in 1701; acted as ambassador in France in 1713; was afterwards impeached for his share in negociating the treaty of Utrecht; and remained a long while in custody, but was finally released untried. After this failure of his political career, a collegefellowship, literature, and the active practical friendship of Lord Oxford, formed his chief resources. Prior was a loose liver; and, spite of his high station, was not disinclined to shift off at times his outward social decorum. I have been assured," says Spence, "that Prior-after having spent the evening with Oxford, Bolingbroke, Pope, and Swift-would go and smoke a pipe, and drink a bottle of ale, with a common soldier and his wife, in Long Acre, before he went to bed"].

TO A CHILD OF QUALITY

FIVE YEARS OLD, 1704, THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY.

LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,

Were summoned by her high command

To show their passions by their letters.

My pen amongst the rest I took,
Lest those bright eyes that cannot read
Should dart their kindling fires, and look
The power they have to be obeyed.

Nor quality nor reputation
Forbid me yet my flame to tell;
Dear five-years-old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.

For, while she makes her silkworms' beds
With all the tender things I swear,-
Whilst all the house my passion reads
In papers round her baby's hair,—

She may receive and own my flame;

For, though the strictest prudes should know it,
She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,
And I for an unhappy poet.

Then, too, alas! when she shall tear
The lines some younger rival sends,
She'll give me leave to write, I fear,
And we shall still continue friends:

For, as our different ages move,

'Tis so ordained (would fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love

When she begins to comprehend it.

MERRY ANDREW.

SLY Merry Andrew, the last Southwark fair,
(At Bartholomew he did not much appear,
So peevish was the edict of the Mayor)-
At Southwark, therefore, as his tricks he showed,
To please our masters and his friends the crowd,
A huge neat's tongue he in his right hand held,
His left was with a good black-pudding filled.
With a grave look, in this odd equipage,
The clownish mimic traverses the stage.

"Why, how now, Andrew!" cries his brother droll,
"To-day's conceit methinks is something dull.
Come on, Sir, to our worthy friends explain
What does your emblematic Worship mean?"
Quoth Andrew, "Honest English let us speak;
Your emble (what d'ye call it?) is Heathen Greek.
To tongue or pudding thou hast no pretence;
Learning thy talent is, but mine is sense.
That busy fool I was which thou art now;
Desirous to correct, not knowing how,-

With very good design, but little wit,
Blaming or praising things as I thought fit:
I for this conduct had what I deserved,
And, dealing honestly, was almost starved.
But, thanks to my indulgent stars, I eat,
Since I have found the secret to be great."
"O dearest Andrew," says the humble droll,
"Henceforth may I obey, and thou control;
Provided thou impart thy useful skill.”-

"Bow then," says Andrew, "and for once I will.-
Be of your patron's mind, whate'er he says;
Sleep very much; think little, and talk less:
Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong,
But eat your pudding, slave, and hold your tongue."
A reverend prelate stopped his coach-and-six

To laugh a little at our Andrew's tricks :
But, when he heard him give this golden rule,
"Drive on" (he cried) "this fellow is no fool."

SAMUEL WESLEY (SENR.)

[The Rev. Samuel Wesley (or Westley) was born towards 1666, and died in 1735. He came of a dissenting family, but entered the Established Church in his youth, and was appointed to the living of Epworth, Lincolnshire. He published Maggots, or Poems on several Subjects, 1685; The Life of Christ, a heroic poem, 1693; a Latin Commentary on Job; and other works in verse and prose. He had a family of nineteen children, including Samuel Wesley, Jun, (see p. 198), and the celebrated John Wesley],

A PINDARIC ON THE GRUNTING OF A HOG.

FREEBORN Pindaric never does refuse

Either a lofty or a humble muse :

Now in proud Sophoclean buskins sings

Of heroes and of kings,

Mighty numbers, mighty things;

Now out of sight she flies,
Rowing with gaudy wings
Across the stormy skies;

Then down again
Herself she flings,

Without uneasiness or pain,

To lice and dogs,

To cows and hogs,

And follows their melodious grunting o'er the plain.

Harmonious hog, draw near!

No bloody butcher's here,-
Thou need'st not fear.

Harmonious hog, draw near, and from thy beauteous snout (Whilst we attend with ear,

Like thine, pricked up devout,

To taste thy sugary voice, which here and there,
With wanton curls, vibrates around the circling air),
Harmonious hog! warble some anthem out!

As sweet as those which quavering Monks, in days of yore,
With us did roar,

When they (alas

That the hard-hearted abbot such a coil should keep,
And cheat 'em of their first, their sweetest sleep!)
When they were ferreted up to midnight mass:
Why should not other pigs on organs play,
As well as they?

Dear hog! thou king of meat!

So near thy lord, mankind,

The nicest taste can scarce a difference find!
No more may I thy glorious gammons eat-

No more

Partake of the free farmer's Christmas store,

Black puddings which with fat would make your mouth run o'er,If I (though I should ne'er so long the sentence stay,

And in my large ears' scale the thing ne'er so discreetly weigh), If I can find a difference in the notes

Belched from the applauded throats

Of rotten play-house songsters all-divine,—

If any difference I can find between their notes and thine.
A noise they keep, with tune and out of tune,

And round and flat,

High, low, and this and that,

That Algebra or thou or I might understand as soon.

Like the confounding lute's innumerable strings
One of them sings.

Thy easier music's ten times more divine;

More like the one-stringed, deep, majestic trump-marine.
Prythee strike up, and cheer this drooping heart of mine !—
Not the sweet harp that's claimed by Jews,

Nor that which to the far more ancient Welsh belongs,
Nor that which the wild Irish use,

Frighting even their own wolves with loud hubbubbaboos,
Nor Indian dance, with Indian songs,

Nor yet

(Which how should I so long forget?)
The crown of all the rest,

The very cream o' the jest,
Amphion's noble lyre-the tongs;

Nor, though poetic Jordan bite his thumbs

At the bold world, my Lord Mayor's flutes and kettledrums;

Not all this instrumental dare

With thy soft, ravishing, vocal music ever to compare !

SIR JOHN VANBRUGH.

[Born in 1666, died in 1726. Dramatist and architect].

FABLE, RELATED BY A BEAU TO ESOP.

A BAND, a Bob-wig, and a Feather,
Attacked a lady's heart together.
The Band, in a most learned plea
Made up of deep philosophy,

Told her, if she would please to wed
A reverend beard, and take instead
Of vigorous youth,

Old solemn truth,

With books and morals, into bed,
How happy she would be.

The Bob he talked of management,
What wondrous blessings Heaven sent
On care, and pains, and industry:
And truly he must be so free
To own he thought your airy beaux,
With powdered wigs and dancing-shoes,
Were good for nothing (mend his soul !)
But prate, and talk, and play the fool.

He said 'twas wealth gave joy and mirth,
And that to be the dearest wife

Of one who laboured all his life

To make a mine of gold his own,

And not spend sixpence when he'd done,
Was heaven upon earth.

When these two blades had done, d'ye see,
The Feather (as it might be me)
Steps out, sir, from behind the screen,
With such an air and such a mien-
"Look you, old gentleman,"-in short,
He quickly spoiled the statesman's sport.

It proved such sunshine weather
That, you must know, at the first beck
The lady leaped about his neck,
And off they went together!