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Deep read in stratagems, and wiles of courts.
Now vain their treaty-skill:
Is meditating new unheard-of hardships,
Mocks his short arm, and quick as thought escapes
Here the warm lover, leaving the cool shade,
Nor pressed the nipple, strangled in life's porch.
Or half its worth disclosed. Strange medley here!
And jovial youth, of lightsome vacant heart,
Whose ev'ry day was made of melody,
Hears not the voice of mirth.-The shrill-tongued shrew,
Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding.
Here are the wise, the generous, and the brave;
Poor man! how happy once in thy first state!
Sound was the body, and the soul serene;
Like two sweet instruments, ne'er out of tune,
Nor anxious castings up of what might be,
Show not more smooth, when kissed by southern winds
Blessed, thrice blessed days! - But oh! how short!
Can naught compound for the first dire offense
Offered in incense, can procure his pardon,
And drives the loiterer forth; nor must he take
His glory and his God. If mortal now,
And sorely maimed, no wonder. - Man has sinned.
Like those of angels, short and far between :
Admitted once into its better room,
Grew loud and mutinous, nor would be gone;
Lording it o'er the man who now too late
Saw the rash error, which he could not mend:
An error fatal not to him alone,
But to his future sons, his fortune's heirs.
And its vast body bleeds through every vein.
POEMS OF JOHN BYROM.
[JOHN BYROM was born near Manchester, England, in 1691, educated at Trinity, Cambridge; studied medicine at Montpellier, and became a convert to Jacob Boehme's mysticism, being an unusual mixture of broad humor and deep enthusiasms; gave up medicine and worldly prudence for a penniless marriage; was member of the Royal Society, and loved science; invented a method of short-hand, and taught it for a living till he fell heir to an estate; died 1763. He wrote vast quantities of verse, partly collected in 1773; but is remembered for the wit and point of a few skits.]
God bless the King- I mean the faith's defender!
God bless (no harm in blessing) the Pretender!
But who pretender is, or who is king—
God bless us all!-that's quite another thing.
THE THREE BLACK CROWS.
[For the original of this, see "Gesta Romanorum," Vol. 10, page 62.]
One took the other briskly by the hand:
About the crows!"—"I don't know what it is,"
A gentleman that lives not far from 'Change,
Ask Mr. Such-a-one, he told it me:
But, by the bye, 'twas two black crows, not three."
Whip to the third the virtuoso went.
"Sir- " and so forth.
"Why, yes; the thing is fact,
The gentleman himself told me the case.".
"Where may I find him?". "Why, in such a place." Away he goes, and having found him out
"Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt."
Then to his last informant he referred,
And begged to know if true what he had heard:
"Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?"
"Not I!"-"Bless me! how people propagate a lie! Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one, And here I find at last all comes to none!
Did you say nothing of a crow at all?”
"Crow crow-perhaps I might, now I recall
The matter over."-"And pray, sir, what was't?”— "Why, I was horrid sick, and at the last,
I did throw up, and told my neighbor so,
Two foot-companions once in deep discourse. "Tom," says the one, "let's go and steal a horse." "Steal!" says the other in a huge surprise, "He that says I'm a thief, I say he lies." "Well, well," replies his friend, "no such affront! I did but ask ye. If you won't, you won't." So they jogged on, till in another strain The querist moved to honest Tom again: "Suppose," says he, "for supposition's sake ('Tis but a supposition that I make!) – Suppose that we should filch a horse, I say?" "Filch? filch?" quoth Tom, demurring by the way, "That's not so bad as downright theft, I own,
But yet methinks - 'twere better let alone.
It soundeth something pitiful and low.
Shall we go filch a horse, you say? Why, no!
Struck with such vast integrity quite dumb,
Honest and poor. - Alas, that should not be!
And dry into the bargain! And no drink!
Shall we go nim a horse, Tom? What dost think?"
How clear are things when liquor's in the case!
Tom answers quick, with casuistic grace,
"Nim? yes, yes, yes! Let's nim, with all my heart.
That honesty should wear its bottoms out!
There is the best that ever wore a bit
Not far from hence." "I take ye," quoth his friend,
His feathered neck they nimmed him off the ground.
'Twixt right and wrong how many gentle trimmers Will neither steal nor filch, but will be plaguy Nimmers!
BY WILLIAM SHENSTONE.
SINCE Phyllis vouchsafed me a look,
I prized every hour that went by,
Beyond all that had pleased me before;
But now they are past, and I sigh;
And I grieve that I prized them no more.
But why do I languish in vain;
Why wander thus pensively here?
Oh! why did I come from the plain
Where I fed on the smiles of my dear?
They tell me, my favorite maid,
The pride of that valley, is flown;