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Thus strengthen'd, mine host
Did vapour and boast,

And bounce like a true valiant tailor;
In his own wise conceit,
Was wholly as great,

If not greater than Fox, or than Naylor.
But dreadful, alas !

Midnight being past,

When by constant experience 'tis found,
And children can tell,

Before they can spell,

That ghosts like the watch take their round.

Then a noise from afar,
Like drumming to war,
Made every visage look pale;
The blood from each part
Flew swift to the heart,

Lest courage now needful should fail.
If this had been all,

The fright had been small,

But-my hair stands on end while I tell it—
A sulphurous smell

Seem'd just come from hell,

And a parson was sent for to smell it.

He soon found by his nose,

That the vapours arose

From the place where the Quaker lay panting; What pity, alas!

How unlucky it was,

That Hogarth wasn't there with his painting.
Thus we fairly, I think,

Account for the stink;

But what the strange drumming should be,
Oh, hard to conceive it,-

Who e'er could believe it?

'Twas the captain's great dog and a flea.

MR. AND MRS. WRIGHT;
OR, THE FIRE IRONS.

From trifling causes, trifles light as air,
Oft quarrels swell, which bring on heavy care;
A slight rebuke, a simple contradiction,
Will troubles raise, aye, fit for works of fiction:
With married folks, rallies, separations,
Might oft be traced to simple deprecations;
And many a case that's brought before the mayor,
Raises a laugh against the foolish pair,

Which might be saved, and thus spare publication,
By one soft answer, or one mild oration.

Thus much for preface-they've got to such a rage,
That nought's seen now without a puffing page ;-
Well, here's twelve lines-quite enough of it.
And of my tale you have not heard a bit.
I will not fail

To give my tale,
Exactly as it happen'd.

One Billy Wright, who kept a noted shop
Near the West-End, where oftentimes did stop
The dashing loungers for the play preparing
A visit, or perhaps to take an airing,
To undergo the pleasing operation

Of dressing, frizzing, and such like cultivation,
Which belongs,

Solely to the tongs,

By which he kept a decent-looking arbour.
He was, at once,

What many a dunce

Would plumply call a barber!

With tongs and scissors, cut and crop away,
He'd had a most fatiguing day;

And though, of course, the payment made it sweet,
A little rest would have been thought a treat;
And I'll assure you that Mr. William Wright
For once rejoiced at the approach of night.
But at once to tell

What afterwards befel,

1

I must not comment, but proceed to facts.
But 'tis a shame,

And ladies are to blame,

They ought to humour all their husbands' acts.
His shop he'd closed, the ev'ning growing late,
And round the fire was reading 'bout the state,
Police reports, and accidents most shocking,
While Mrs. Wright sat darning a silk stocking.
Now, when a man's fatigued, you will allow,
He's rather fidgety, feels he don't know how ;
And in this case,

'Tis a wife's place

To try to humour and to please his station;
Now Mr. Wright,
Fatigued quite,

Was in this most deserving situation.

The tongs and shovel, as sometimes 'twill happen,
Were on one side, which made them look misshapen ;
"My dear," said Mr. Wright, "pray move this shovel,
"It makes the room look like a wretched hovel."
"A wretched fiddlestick!—while the child I'm rocking,
"I can't; besides, I want to mend my stocking ;”
Cried Mrs. Wright,
In a peevish plight,

Nor did she stir or care to move the shovel;
Although a minute,

Did she but begin it,

Would have made a parlour of "this wretched hovel." "The devil take the stocking, and you too! "What I've bid you, Madam, can't you do?

"And why can't you, sir, pray, as well as me ? "I'll not give way, 'cause you're so fidgety." "Fidgety! madam? 'tis false! out of my sight.". "I shan't, you lout! I shan't," cried Mrs. Wright. Now Mr. Wright,

With passion and fright,

Sent the old shovel quick across the room.
Cried Mrs. Wright, "You wretch !"

66

Away, infernal

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Cried Wright, and broke a bottle of perfume.

"The money that I brought when married, raised your fame,

"You snivelling wretch!" cried Mrs. Wright again: "And glad to get me; but a parting deed

"Shall soon end this." Quoth Mrs. Wright, "Agreed." Then in a passion, in this furious round,

With cups and saucers soon she strew'd the ground;
The neighbours in a fright,
Seeing their dismal plight,

Tried to appease this foolish rash oration;
And, with great trouble,

They calm'd the hubble-bubble,

And all they wanted was an explanation. But how to make it was no easy matter, They'd both forgotten what began the clatter; "She would not move the shovel," echoed Wright, Scratching his thoughts together, "That caused the fight."

They both shook hands, acknowledged it was wrong, For such a trifle to make such a ding-dong :

The neighbours all
Then made a call,

And songs went round all night;
And wine in plenty,

Glasses fill'd as soon as empty,
Quite restored to peace, Mr. and Mrs. Wright.
Since that quarrel, on that lucky night,

She a kind indulgent wife remains,

And he to serve her does his utmost pains, And like Darby and Joan live Mr. and Mrs. Wright.

WHAT IS LIFE?

-What is life?

'Tis not to stalk about, and draw fresh air From time to time, or gaze upon the sun; "Tis to be free. When liberty is gone,

Life grows insipid, and has lost its relish.-ADDISON.

SPEECH OF BRUTUS ON THE DEATH OF CESAR.

Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my cause; and be silent, that you may hear: believe me for mine honour; and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe: censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Cæsar's, to him I say, that Brutus' love to Cæsar was no less than his. If then, that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is my answer,-Not that I loved Cæsar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Cæsar were living, and die all slaves, than that Cæsar were dead, to live all free men? As Cæsar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him; but as he was ambitious, I slew him. There are tears, for his love; joy, for his fortune; honour, for his valour; and death for his ambition. Who is here so base, that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude, that would not be a Roman! If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile, that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply. None! Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Cæsar, than you should do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death. Here comes his body, mourn'd by Mark Antony; who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth; as which of you shall not? With this I depart that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death.

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