But, when Florimel deign'd to lie privately in, Ten months before she and her spouse were a-kin, She chose with such prudence her pangs to conceal, That her nurse, nay her midwife, scarce heard her [lives, Learn, Husbands, from hence, for the peace of your That maids make not half so much tumult as wives.

once squeal.

A DUTCH PROVERB.

FIRE, water, woman, are man's ruin
Says wise Professor Vander Brüin.
By flames a house I hir'd was lost,
Last year, and I must pay the cost.
This spring the rains o'erflow'd my ground,
And my best Flanders mare was drown'd.
A slave I am to Clara's eyes;

The gipsy knows her pow'r and flies.

Fire, water, woman, are my ruin,

And great thy wisdom, Vander Brüin.

A SIMILE.

DEAR Thomas, didst thou never pop
Thy head into a tinman's shop?
There, Thomas, didst thou never see
('Tis but by way of Simile)

A Squirrel spend his little rage
In jumping round a rolling cage,
The cage, as either side turn'd up,
Striking a ring of bells a-top ?—

Mov'd in the orb, pleas'd with the chimes,
The foolish creature thinks he climbs ;
But here or there, turn wood or wire,
He never gets two inches higher.

So fares it with those merry blades
That frisk it under Pindus' shades.
In noble songs and lofty odes,

They tread on stars, and talk with Gods;
Still dancing in an airy round,

Still pleas'd with their own verses' sound;
Brought back, how fast soe'er they go,
Always aspiring, always low.

A FLOWER.

PAINTED BY SIMON VARELST.

WHEN fam'd Varelst this little wonder drew,
Flora vouchsaf'd the growing work to view:
Finding the painter's science at a stand,
The Goddess snatch'd the pencil from his hand,
And, finishing the piece, she, smiling, said,
Behold one work of mine that ne'er shall fade.

A CASE STATED.

I.

Now how shall I do with my love and my pride, Dear Dick, give me counsel, if friendship has any? Pr'ythee purge, or let blood, surly Richard reply'd, And forget the coquette in the arms of your Nan

II.

[ny. While I pleaded with passion how much I deserv'd, For the pains and the torments for more than a

year,

She look'd in an almanack, whence she observ'd, That it wanted a fortnight to Barthol'mew fair.

III.

My Cowley and Waller how vainly I quote, [eye; While my negligent judge only hears with her In a long flaxen wig and embroider'd new coat, Her spark, saying nothing, talks better than I.

A FABLE.

Personam traviciam forte vulpes vide, at,
O quanta species, inquit, cerebrum non habet.

THE fox an actor's visard found

PHÆDR.

And peer'd, and felt, and turn'd it round,
Then threw it in contempt away,
And thus old Phædrus heard him say:
What noble part canst thou sustain,
Thou specious head without a brain?

A CRITICAL MOMENT.

How capricious were Nature and Art to poor Nell? She was painting her cheeks at the time her nose fell.

WRA

FORMA BONUM FRAGILE.

HAT a frail thing is beauty, says Baron le Crass, Perceiving his mistress had one eye of glass: And scarcely had he spoke it,

When she, more confus'd, as more angry she grew, By a negligent rage prov'd the maxim too true; She dropp'd the eye and broke it.

QUID SIT FUTURUM CRAS FUGE
QUÆRERE.

For what to-morrow shall disclose
May spoil what you to-night propose:
England may change or Chloe stray;
Love and life are for to-day.

HER RIGHT NAME.

As Nancy at her toilette sat,

Admiring this, and blaming that,
Tell me, she said, but tell me true,
The nymph who could your heart subdue,

What sort of charms does she possess?
Absolve me, fair one, I'll confess
With pleasure, I reply'd: Her hair,
In ringlets, rather dark than fair,
Does down her iv'ry bosom roll,
And, hiding, half adorns the whole.
In her high forehead's fair half round
Love sits in open triumph crown'd;
He in the dimple of her chin,
In private state, by friends is seen.
Her eyes are neither black nor gray,
Nor fierce nor feeble is their ray;
Their dubious lustre seems to show
Something that speaks nor Yes nor No.
Her lips no living bard, I weet,

May say how red, how round, how sweet :
Old Homer only could indite

Theiy vagrant grace and soft delight:

They stand recorded in his book,
When Helen smil'd and Hebe spoke-
The gipsy, turning to her glass,
Too plainly show'd she knew the face;
And which am I most like, she said,
Your Chloe or your Nut-brown maid?

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