THE SPARROW AND DIAMOND.
I LATELY saw what now I sing,
Fair Lucia's hand displayed;
This finger graced a diamond ring,
On that a sparrow played.
The feathered plaything she caressed,
She stroked its head and wings;
And, while it nestled on her breast,
She lisped the dearest things.
With chisel bill a spark ill set
He loosened from the nest,
And swallowed down to grind his meat,
The easier to digest.
She seized his bill with wild affright,
Her diamond to descry:
'Twas gone! she sickened at the sight,
Moaning her bird would die.
The tongue-tied knocker none might use, The curtains none undraw;
The footmen went without their shoes,
The street was laid with straw.
The doctor used his oily art
Of strong emetic kind;
The apothecary played his part,
And engineered behind.
When physic ceased to spend its store
To bring away the stone,
Dicky, like people when given o'er,
Picks up when let alone.
His eyes dispelled their sickly dews,
He pecked behind his wing;
Lucia, recovering at the news,
Relapses for the ring.
Meanwhile within her beauteous breast
Two different passions strove;
When avarice ended the contest,
And triumphed over love.
Poor little, pretty, fluttering thing!
Thy pains the sex display
Who only to repair a ring
Could take thy life away!
Drive avarice from your breasts, ye fair, Monster of foulest mien;
[Born in 1703, died in 1774. A footman whose integrity, industry, and good sense, advanced him to the position of the leading English bookseller of his time. His first publication was named The Muse in Livery; followed by some plays-The Toyshop and Cleone were more especially successful-a very popufar little volume entitled The Economy of Human Life, and other works, original or re-edited].
AN EPISTLE TO MY FRIEND, MR. WRIGHT.
DEAR FRIEND,-Since I am now at leisure,
And in the country taking pleasure,
If it be worth your while to hear
A silly footman's business there,
I'll try to tell, in easy rhyme,
How I in London spend my time.
As soon as laziness will let me,'
I rise from bed, and down I set me
To cleaning glasses, knives, and plate,
And such-like dirty work as that,
Which (by the bye) is what I hate.
This done, with expeditious care,
To dress myself I straight prepare.
I clean my buckles, black my shoes,
Powder my wig, and brush my clothes,
Take off my beard, and wash my face;
And then I'm ready for the chace.
Down comes my lady's woman straight :`
"Where's Robin?" "Here."
And go-and go-and go-and go—;
And this-and that desire to know."
The charge received, away run I,
And here and there and yonder fly,
With services, and how-d'ye-does;
Then home return full-fraught with news.
Here some short time does interpose,
Till warm effluvias greet my nose,
Which from the spits and kettles fly,
Declaring dinner-time is nigh.
To lay the cloth I now prepare,
With uniformity and care;
In order knives and forks are laid,
With folded napkins, salt, and bread:
The side-boards glittering too appear,
With plate, and glass, and china-ware.
Then, ale, and beer, and wine decanted,
And all things ready which are wanted,
The smoking dishes enter in,
To stomachs sharp a grateful scene;
Which on the table being placed,
And some few ceremonies past,
They all sit down, and fall to eating,
Whilst I behind stand silent waiting.
This is the only pleasant hour
Which I have in the twenty-four;
For, whilst I unregarded stand,
With ready salver in my hand,
And seem to understand no more
Than just what's called for out to pour,
I hear and mark the courtly phrases,
And all the elegance that passes;
Disputes maintained without digression,
With ready wit and fine expression;
The laws of true politeness stated,
And what good-breeding is, debated :
Where all unanimous exclude
The vain coquet, the formal prude,
The ceremonious, and the rude,
The flattering, fawning, praising train,
The fluttering, empty, noisy, vain;
Detraction, smut, and what's profane.
This happy hour elapsed and gone,
The time of drinking tea comes on.
The kettle filled, the water boiled,
The cream provided, biscuits piled,
And lamp prepared, I straight engage
The Lilliputian equipage
Of dishes, saucers, spoons, and tongs,
And all the et cætera which thereto belongs.
Which, ranged in order and decorum,
I carry in and set before 'em ;
Then pour or green or Bohea out,
And, as commanded, hand about.
This business over, presently
The hour of visiting draws nigh;
The chairmen straight prepare the chair,
A lighted flambeau I prepare ;
And, orders given where to go,
We march along, and bustle through
The parting crowds, who all stand off
To give us room. Oh how you'd laugh
To see me strut before a chair,
And with a sturdy voice and air
Crying-" By your leave, Sir; have a care!"
From place to place with speed we fly,
And rat-tatat the knockers cry.
"Pray is your lady, Sir, within?"
If "no," go on; if "yes," we enter in.
Then to the hall I guide my steps,
Amongst a crowd of brother skips,
Drinking small-beer, and talking smut,
And this fool's nonsense putting that fool's out:
Whilst oaths and peals of laughter meet,
And he who's loudest is the greatest wit.
But here amongst us the chief trade is
To rail against our Lords and Ladies :
To aggravate their smallest failings,
To expose their faults with saucy railings.
For my part, as I hate the practice,
And see in them how base and black 'tis,
To some bye place I therefore creep,
And sit me down, and feign to sleep;
And, could I with old Morpheus bargain,
'Twould save my ears much noise and jargon.
But down my Lady comes again,
And I'm released from my pain.
To some new place our steps we bend,
The tedious evening out to spend ;
Sometimes, perhaps, to see the play,
Assembly, or the opera ;
Then home and sup, and thus we end the day.
[Born in 1704, died in 1787. Made some figure in fashion and in politics, and is now best remembered-and even that more by tradition than otherwise --as author of a poem on The Art of Dancing]:
WHEN first I sought fair Cœlia's love,
And every charm was new,
I swore by all the Gods above
To be for ever true.
But long in vain did I adore,
Long wept and sighed in vain ;
Still she protested, vowed, and swore,
She ne'er would ease my pain.
At last o'ercome she made me blest,
And yielded all her charms;
And I forsook her when possessed,
And fled to others' arms.
But let not this, dear Coelia, now
To rage thy breast incline;
For why, since you forget your vow,
Should I remember mine?
[Born at Sharpham near Glastonbury, 22 April 1707; died in Lisbon, 8 October 1754].
PLAIN TRUTH.
As Bathian Venus t'other day
Invited all the Gods to tea,
Her maids of honour, the Miss Graces
Attending duly in their places,
Their godships gave a loose to mirth,
As we at Buttering's here on earth.
Minerva in her usual way
Rallied the daughter of the sea.
"Madam," said she, “your loved resort,
The city where you hold your court,
Is lately fallen from its duty,
And triumphs more in wit than beauty;
For here," she cried, see here a poem-
'Tis Dalston's; you, Apollo, know him."
Little persuasion sure invites
Pallas to read what Dalston writes:
Nay, I have heard that in Parnassus
For truth a current whisper passes,
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