Full as an egg was I with glee, And happy as a king: Good Lord! how all men envied me! But false as hell, she, like the wind, If I and Molly could agree, Till you grow tender as a chick, Let us like curs together stick, You'll know me truer than a die, Flat as a flounder when I lie, Sure as a gun she'll drop a tear, And sigh, perhaps, and wish, LISLE.1 EURYDICE. WHEN Orpheus went down to the regions below, Which men are forbidden to see; He tuned up his lyre, as old histories show, To set his Eurydice free. All hell was astonished a person so wise Should rashly endanger his life, And venture so far; but how vast their surprise To find out a punishment due for his fault But hell had not torments sufficient, he thought,— So he gave him his wife back again. 1 I have looked in various books for any particulars about this writer, but without success. His Eurydice is given in Aikin's Collection of English Songs (edition 1810): the first edition of which book was published in 1772. From a peculiarity of rhyming common at one time-"fault" with "thought"-I pre sume the poem may have been written at some such date as 1720 to 1750. But pity succeeding soon vanquished his heart; He took her again in reward of his art,- SAMUEL WESLEY (JUNR.) [See Samuel Wesley (Sen.), p. 154. The Rev. Samuel Wesley, Jun., was born towards 1692, and died in 1739. He was for many years an usher in Westminster School, and afterwards Head Master of Tiverton School. He was an extreme high Tory, and strongly disapproved of the religious movement promoted by his brother John]. ON THE SETTING-UP MR. BUTLER'S1 MONUMENT IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. WHILE Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive, See him, when starved to death and turned to dust, The poet's fate is here in emblem shown; He asked for bread, and he received a stonę. ADVICE TO ONE WHO WAS ABOUT TO WRITE, TO AVOID THE IMMORALITIES OF THE ANCIENT AND MODERN POETS. IF e'er to writing you pretend, That, while your verse the reader draws None e'er hereafter may have cause To curse your being witty. No gods or weak or wicked feign; Make not a pious chief forego With partial blindness to a side, 1 Butler, the author of Hudibras. Nor let a hero loud blaspheme, Nor choose the wanton Ode, to praise A numerous melting lyric: Nor jumbled atoms entertain Stands without vesture painted: Worse than the poet tainted. Nor sparrow mourn, nor sue to kiss; In ears of princes blowing. Through modern Italy pass down (In crimes inferior she to none), Through France, her thoughts in lust alone Without reserve proclaiming : Stay there who count it worth the while! To note the poets of our isle, Sing not loose stories for the nonce, On earth and heaven jesting: Nor comic licence let us see, One only step can yet remain, Nor make your tragic hero bold Nor dress your shame in courtly phrase, Nor make it your peculiar pride Nor ever prostitute the Muse, Make Maximin with heaven engage, Apostle of the Devil. Detest profaning holy writ,— A rock where heathens could not split. Old Jove more harmless charmed the pit, Of Plautus's creation, Than when the adulterer was showed With attributes of real God But fools the means of grace allowed Mingle not wit with treason rude, From poison intermixed with food Such plots deform the tuneful train, Do you mistaken ends despise, What though with ease you could aspire If vice and lewdness breathes the lyre, Better with honest Quarles compose Or Sternhold in his verses. MATTHEW GREEN. [Born in 1696, died in 1737. An official in the London Custom-House, and author of the poem named The Spleen-which, like the rest of his compositions, was only published after his death]. AN EPIGRAM ON THE REV. MR. LAURENCE EACHARD'S AND BISHOP GILBERT BURNET'S HISTORIES. GIL's history appears to me Political anatomy; A case of skeletons well done, His sharp and strong incision-pen And does with lucid skill impart |