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This clue once found, unravels all the rest, The prospect clears, and Wharton stands confest.*

Wharton, the scorn and wonder of our days,

Whose ruling passion was the lust of praise: Born with whate'er could win it from the wise,

Women and fools must him like, or he dies; Though wond'ring senates hung on all he spoke,

The club must hail him master of the joke. Shall parts so various aim at nothing new? He'll shine a Tully and a Wilmot too.

Thus with each gift of nature and of art,
And wanting nothing but an honest heart;
Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt;
And most contemptible, to shun contempt:
His passion still, to covet general praise,
His life, to forfeit it a thousand ways;
A constant bounty which no friend has
made;

An angel tongue, which no man can persuade;

A fool, with more of wit than half mankind;

Toorash for thought, for action too refined;
A tyrant to the wife his heart approves;
A rebel to the very king he loves;
He dies, sad outcast of each church and
state,

And, harder still! flagitious, yet not great. Ask you why Wharton broke through every rule?

'Twas all for fear the knaves should call

him fool.

Nature well known no prodigies remain, Comets are regular, and Wharton plain.

*

The frugal crone, whom praying priests attend,

Still tries to save the hallowed taper's end, Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires, For one puff more, and in that puff expires.

"Odious! in woollen! 'twould a saint provoke,"

(Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke).

*Philip, Duke of Wharton, born 1698; died a monk in Spain, 1731. His eccentric and dissipated career rendered him remarkable. He was, towards the end of his life, attached to the Court of the Pretender.

"No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace [less face: Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeOne would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead

And-Betty-give this a cheek little red."

The courtier smooth, who forty years had shined

An humble servant to all human kind, Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir, [sir?" "If-where I'm going-I could serve you,

"I give and I devise" (old Euclio said, And sighed) "my lands and tenements to Ned." "Your money, sir?" "My money, sir! what, all?

Why, if I must" (then wept) "I give it Paul."

"The manor, sir?"-"The manor! hold," he cried, [and died.* "Not that,

I cannot part with that,"

And you, brave Cobham! to the latest breath [death: Shall feel your ruling passion strong in Such in those moments as in all the past, "Oh, save my country, Heaven!" shall be your last.

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CHARACTERISTICS OF WOMAN.

BUT grant, in public men sometimes are
shown,

A woman's seen in private life alone:
Our bolder talents in full light displayed;
Your virtues open fairest in the shade.
Bred to disguise, in public 'tis you hide;
There, none distinguish 'twixt your shame
or pride,

Weakness or delicacy; all so nice,
That each may seem a virtue, or a vice.

In men, we various ruling passions find; In women, two almost divide the kind; Those, only fixed, they first or last obey, The love of pleasure, and the love of sway. That, nature gives; and where the lesson taught

Is but to please, can pleasure seem a fault? Experience, this; by man's oppression curst,

They seek the second not to lose the first.

• Sir William Bateman used those very words on his death-bed.-Warton.

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Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day; She, who can love a sister's charms, or hear; Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear; She, who ne'er answers till a husband cools, Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules; Charms by accepting, by submitting sways, Yet has her humour most when she obeys; Let fops or fortune fly which way they will; Disdains all loss of tickets or codille; [all, Spleen, vapours, or small-pox, above them And mistress of herself, though china fall.

And yet, believe me, good as well as ill, Woman's at best a contradiction still.

Heav'n, when it strives to polish all it can Its last best work, but forms a softer man; Picks from each sex, to make the fav'rite blest,

Your love of pleasure, our desire of rest; Blends, in exception to all gen'ral rules, Your taste of follies with our scorn of fools: Reserve with frankness, art with truth allied,

Courage with softness, modesty with pride; Fixed principles, with fancy ever new; Shakes all together, and produces-you.

Be this a woman's fame: with this unblest, [jest. Toasts live a scorn, and queens may die a This Phoebus promised (I forget the year) When those blue eyes first opened on the sphere;

Ascendent Phoebus watched that hour with

care,

Averted half your parents' simple pray'r, And gave you beauty, but denied the pelf That buys your sex a tyrant o'er itself. The generous God, who wit and gold refines,

And ripens spirits as He ripens mines, Kept dross for duchesses, the world shall know it,

To you gave sense, good-humour, and a poet.

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MATTHEW PRIOR.

1664-1721.

EPIGRAM.

I LOVED thee, beautiful and kind,
And plighted an eternal vow;
So altered are thy face and mind-
'Twere perjury to love thee now.

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OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

1728-1774.

AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE.

GOOD people all, with one accord

Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word

From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom passed her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor-
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please
With manners wondrous winning;
And never followed wicked ways-
Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumbered in her pew-
But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,

By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has followed her-
When she has walked before.

But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;

The doctors found, when she was dead-
Her last disorder mortal.

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AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

GOOD people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song,

And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say That still a godly race he ranWhene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad-
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,

The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wond'ring neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,

That showed the rogues they lied,-
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died!

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WILLIAM COWPER.

1731-1800.

THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF
JOHN GILPIN.
Showing how he went farther than he in-
tended, and came safe home again.

The story of John Gilpin's ride was related to Cowper by his friend, Lady Austen, who had heard it as a child. It caused the poet a sleepless night, we are told, as he was kept

awake by laughter at it. During these restless hours he turned it into the famous ballad. It appeared in the "Public Advertiser," November 14th, 1782, anonymously.

A celebrated actor named Henderson took it for one of his public recitations at Freemasons' Hall. It became immediately so popular that it was printed everywhere-in newspapers, magazines, and separately. It was even sung as a common ballad in the streets. It has preserved its popularity to the present date.

The original John Gilpin was, it is said, a Mr. Beyer, a linendraper, who lived at the Cheapside corner of Paternoster Row. died in 1791, at the age of nearly a hundred

years.

JOHN GILPIN was a citizen

Of credit and renown,

A trainband captain eke was he
Of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,

"Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen.

"To-morrow is our wedding day,
And we will then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton,
All in a chaise and pair.

"My sister, and my sister's child,
Myself, and children three,
Will fill the chaise; so you must ride
On horseback after we."

He soon replied, "I do admire

Of womankind but one,

And you are she, my dearest dear, Therefore it shall be done.

"I am a linendraper bold,

As all the world doth know,
And my good friend the calender
Will lend his horse to go."

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said:
And for that wine is dear,
We will be furnished with our own,
Which is both bright and clear."

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;
O'erjoyed was he to find

That, though on pleasure she was bent,
She had a frugal mind.

He

The morning came, the chaise was brought,
But yet was not allowed
To drive up to the door, lest all
Should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was stayed, Where they did all get in;

Six precious souls, and all agog

To dash through thick and thin.

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,

Were never folks so glad!
The stones did rattle underneath
As if Cheapside were mad.

John Gilpin at his horse's side Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride,But soon came down again;

For saddletree scarce reached had he, His journey to begin,

When, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time,
Although it grieved him sore,
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,
Would trouble him much more.

'Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind,

When Betty screaming came downstairs"The wine is left behind!"

"Good lack!" quoth he; "yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise,

In which I bear my trusty sword
When I do exercise."

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!)
Had two stone bottles found,
To hold the liquor that she loved,
And keep it safe and sound.

Each bottle had a curling ear,

Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side,

To make his balance true.

Then over all, that he might be
Equipped from top to toe,

His long red coat, well brushed and neat,
He manfully did throw.

Now see him mounted once again

Upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, With caution and good heed.

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